How clever. Could Nick do something like this to earn extra money at Petersheims’? He and Aaron might have to add on to the stable, but as fast as they were with building projects, it wouldn’t take long.
From what she could tell, Aaron was giving Nick plenty of work to do. But knowing Nick as she did, Rose wondered how long before he’d want his own place. Though that’s not my concern.
It was her job to focus on the household items she still needed to fill out her hope chest, for whenever Isaac proposed marriage. Just where they’d live she didn’t know. Of course no matter where he decided, she would follow. A girl was to let her husband make such important choices, even though Rose knew without a doubt she’d miss her childhood home.
Wherever Isaac is, that’ll be home for me. She made the turn into her father’s drive and saw Dat, Mose, Josh, and several other men making hay out in the fields. A nice hot day for it.
She pulled in close to the stable to unhitch, thankful for the shade of the barn. Back inside the house, Rose could hear Mammi Sylvia talking to Mamm, their voices drifting this way in the slow breeze.
Glancing over toward the bishop’s field, Rose saw Aaron and his sons-in-law and Nick haying, as well. She wondered if Nick had missed the feeling of community while he was gone. Amish farmers did everything together—working, worshiping, and living their lives in accordance with God’s ways. It was hard to imagine Nick lasting as long as he had alone in the bustling city of Philadelphia.
She noticed that, from this distance, he blended in perfectly with the other men. Never had he looked as alarmingly English as the day he’d returned home. She guessed it would take some time for his cropped hair to grow out into the traditional style for men, trimmed beneath the ears, with bangs. Just as it would take time to convince Bishop Simon and Old Ezekiel that his interest in God and the church was steadfast.
She finished unhitching the mare and led Upsy-Daisy into the stable for more water, which she also had been mindful to give over at Brownings’. In the barn, Rose noticed Dawdi Jeremiah, a piece of straw dangling lazily from his mouth. “Hullo,” she called. “If you’re lookin’ for Dat, he’s out makin’ hay.”
“Nee, just tryin’ to get some relief from the heat.” He removed his kerchief and wiped his neck beneath his long, untrimmed beard. “Found me a barn kitten to talk to,” he said with a grin as he pulled a tiny gray one out of his baggy bib overalls.
“Oh, how adorable!”
“It’s three weeks old or so, best as I can tell.”
Rose watched Dawdi handle the kitten tenderly. “You’ll have to show Mattie, next time she’s over.”
“Thought I’d let her name it, maybe.”
“Won’t Dat just love that—namin’ all the barn cats?” Her father wasn’t so keen on their getting too attached to the mouse chasers.
Dawdi nuzzled the kitten against his beard, the bitty thing purring like a generator. “This here’s one of God’s creatures. I say it deserves a name. Don’t you?”
“What would you name it?”
“Tillie comes to mind.” Dawdi put the cat nose to nose with him. “She looks like a Tillie to me.”
“We should see if Mattie Sue thinks so.”
He shrugged. “Jah, ’tis gut to let the little ones name ’em.”
She listened as his talk turned to Hen’s coming wee babe.
“Thank the Good Lord for all the young ones in the family,” he said reverently, his brown eyes raised to the ceiling for a moment. “Your Mammi Sylvia and I are awful glad things worked out so nicely for Hen.”
Rose agreed. “She’s very happy.”
“Well, so’s her feller . . . you can just see it all over his face. Knowin’ the Lord’s worked a mighty change in him.” Dawdi teased the kitten with the straw in his mouth. “Ain’t so?”
Rose smiled, enjoying the rare moment with her grandfather.
“Did ya see Samuel Esh’s rickety ol’ wheelbarrow’s for sale?” he asked suddenly, a light in his eyes.
“Can’t say I did.”
“Well, you walked home from Preachin’ last Sunday, ain’t?”
“Jah . . . why?”
“You would’ve walked right past it, then. Don’t see how you could’ve missed it. Deacon’s got it setting out front on the lawn, near the road.”
She didn’t recall. Of course, she had been deep in thought about Leah’s—and Jake’s—concern over Isaac at the shore. “Is there a For Sale sign on it?”
“Ach no.”
“How do ya know Deacon wants it sold, then?”
Dawdi removed his old straw hat and scratched the top of his gray head. “Well, now, just the way it was situated . . . didn’t need a sign. You knew it was for sale by the way it was set there. It ain’t really advertising itself to the fancy folk who fly up and down the pavement in their cars. It’s a-setting out there to attract attention of farmers who think of that road as the way home.”
She smiled, understanding what he meant. “I see.”
“A body could get it for a little bit of nothin’. Seen better days an’ all . . . served its purpose.”
“So, then, are you considering buying it?” She knew better, though she wondered why he was talking so about Deacon’s wheelbarrow being put out to pasture, so to speak.
He guffawed and the piece of straw went flying. “What would I do with it? Make a planter for flowers out of it, maybe?” With a grunt, Dawdi sat on a milk can and fanned himself with his hat. “You’re a real gut one, Miss Rosie Ann.”
“Not sure I shouldn’t take issue with that.” She laughed softly, moving closer.
He winked at her. “Aw, you know I’m just pullin’ your leg, honey-girl.”
“I know you are, Dawdi.”
He wiped his face again with the kerchief while the kitten nestled against him, snuggling into the pocket of his overalls. “You best be goin’ in now. Your Mamm and Mammi will wonder what’s keepin’ you.”
“All right, then. I’ll see ya at dinner.”
A curious smile crossed his face, and he shooed her away with his ratty straw hat.
As she made her way out of the barn and toward the house, Dawdi’s remarks about the deacon’s old wheelbarrow seeped down into her understanding. Dawdi had always been something of a thinker. Even as a little girl, Rose had enjoyed sitting on his knee as he imparted his homespun wisdom, always including a Bible verse here and there. Mamm believed her own hunger for the Good Book came from her father’s particular attention to Scripture.
Rose smiled, glad to be blessed with such a rich spiritual heritage.
She was halfway across the back lawn when she heard what sounded like a milk can clatter, then a muffled call for help.
Turning, she ran back to the barn, rushing past Upsy-Daisy’s stall. “Dawdi!” she called, heart in her throat. “I’m comin’!”
By the time she found him and knelt beside him on the barn floor, her dear Dawdi had already stepped from this life into the next. He looked so peaceful lying there, a slight smile on his wrinkled face.
“Dyin’s like going from one room to another,” he’d told her last year after his stroke.
Lips quivering, Rose leaned her head down onto his chest and remembered every joyful moment spent with him. All the fun at the old fishing hole, hours spent swinging on the tree swing while Dawdi tirelessly pushed her—before her little legs were long enough to keep herself going on her own. And, oh, the watermelon seed spitting contests every summer and the sleigh rides to neighbors up and down Salem Road to go caroling. A lifetime of memories played across her mind, and she relished each and every one.
Nothing could be done for Dawdi now. Before she rose to alert her father, Rose kissed his cheek—her best good-bye. And the gray kitten, who must have jumped when Dawdi fell, came over and nuzzled up against the dearest Dawdi ever, unaware and trusting, clinging with her tiny paws to the big pocket of his overalls.
While Dat and Bishop Aaron handled the funeral arrangements, a g
roup of men headed out to the hayfield, filling in for Rose’s father and brothers. Dat had called the funeral director who spoke the Amish dialect and was accustomed to their way of preparing the body, which would be ready for viewing later today . . . and burial this Friday. As was their custom, many church families would pitch in to help, so that not a single member of the immediate family had to lift a finger for the next week and beyond.
Rose slipped out of the house, skipping the noon meal. She couldn’t possibly have eaten, nor could she have kept her composure while observing her mother’s and grandmother’s grief, restrained though it was.
She set off to honor Dawdi Jeremiah by retracing her steps from last Sunday’s walk home. “Don’t see how you could’ve missed it. . . .” His words echoed in her memory as she ambled down the road to Deacon Samuel’s front yard.
The wobbly old wheelbarrow was still sitting near the road on the front lawn, as her grandfather had said. She went inside and purchased it for only a few dollars—its value far diminished from the original price, years ago.
She thanked the deacon, then told of her grandfather’s passing and the funeral at nine o’clock on Friday morning. Deacon Esh offered his condolences and said he would be over in short order to assist in whatever way was needed.
Then, without another word, Rose left to get the old wheelbarrow, picking it up by its splintery handles and pushing it up the road toward home.
She set the wheelbarrow near her grandparents’ back porch, then filled it nearly to the brim with rich topsoil. Next she dug up some of Dawdi’s favorite flowers, transplanting the pretty red, purple, and white pinwheel zinnias from the side yard, where they were nearly out of view. Rose’s tears watered the newly planted blooms as she paid her quiet tribute. Now they’d have their rightful place near the cozy rear porch of the smaller Dawdi Haus.
At last, she stepped back to admire her project, whispering her grandfather’s name into the zephyr. “I’ll see you again, Dawdi . . . one sweet day.”
Isaac’s weekly letter arrived that afternoon amidst all the preparations for dressing Dawdi Jeremiah in special black funeral attire and laying him out in the pine coffin for the viewing. Rose took her letter out to the shaded area between her father’s property line and the bishop’s and sat on her favorite tree stump. There she looked at the Ocean City postcard—Fun in the Sun—Isaac had enclosed within his letter, which chronicled his time there: swimming, building sand castles . . . and biking on the boardwalk.
Goodness! Her beau freely admitted to not only riding a bike, but taking his turn driving a dune buggy the farmer had rented. Isaac was truthful and honest. But how did he feel comfortable behind the wheel like that? After all, there were forbidden inflatable tires on dune buggies. Same as bikes.
She finished reading the letter, making note of his final words: I miss you, Rose. Looking forward to this Saturday evening. You know the place to meet. With all my love—Isaac
Heading back toward the house, she was thankful for Isaac’s steadfast affection and was eager to see him again. But she didn’t know how to address the bike and the dune buggy.
Where the row of trees ceased to crowd the path, Rose purposely slowed her pace. More gray carriages were arriving at her father’s house. Word would rapidly spread with the help of a Leicht-ah-sager, who traveled to invite family to the funeral, including cousins who were the same age as Dawdi Jeremiah. The invitation would be limited to those closest in age to allow enough room for the immediate family at the funeral service.
Eventually, though, everyone in the church district and the neighborhood would come to pay respects. The word would spread faster than any newspaper could bring it.
People would bring food for the next few days, as well as the day of the funeral, when the family and close relatives gathered after the burial service to fellowship over a plentiful feast as a way to once again resume the patterns of life.
Rose was thankful for this caring tradition—sorrow could deplete a person in body and spirit. She and Mamm would be especially mindful of Mammi Sylvia for a good, long time, making sure she was cared for . . . possibly suggesting she move to the other Dawdi Haus in time, where she could live closer to Rose’s parents.
Thinking suddenly of the wedding season, Rose wondered if Mamm would be expected to wear her black mourning dress and apron to her youngest daughter’s wedding. Ach no! Her mother and grandmother would wear the clothes of mourning for a full year, whereas Rose and her sisters-in-law would wear them for six months. But she realized she was putting the carriage before the horse with that, and she hurried back to the house to help greet the many visitors.
Solomon wasn’t surprised when Aaron and his sons-in-law dropped by later that afternoon to bid farewell to Jeremiah, who’d already been prepared by the funeral director prior to being returned to the family for dressing. But Sol was jolted a bit when Nick came in the back door and removed his straw hat. He eyed him as Nick approached the pine coffin set up in the front room near the two windows facing Salem Road. Nick hadn’t been one to make friends with many of the Kauffman family, so it was striking to see him standing there, gazing so seriously into the simple pine coffin.
For the life of him, Sol did not know what had propelled Nick home after leaving here the way he did. Once Amish youth left, they didn’t usually return. Not even for a short time, like Hen did . . . Was it truly because he desired to make peace with this community?
Sol made it a point to observe where Rose was in proximity to Nick. Far as he could tell, she wasn’t in the kitchen washing and drying dishes with several of Sylvia’s sisters. Most likely she’d gone upstairs to read or pray, which she was known to do at such stressful times. Poor girl, finding her grandfather out there on the floor in the barn! Made him want to weep for her, just thinking about it.
Nick turned and walked solemnly through the sitting room—right past Sol—without speaking. He looked downright dejected, as though reviewing his own life, perhaps. Sol was touched by his humble spirit, and later when he spotted Nick and Aaron talking together, he couldn’t help but be impressed by Nick’s respectful demeanor toward the man who raised him . . . whatever his doubts.
For all the rest of the day and long into the evening, the People came to view Dawdi Jeremiah, a steady stream of compassionate souls. Visitors knew to enter at will through the back door. Many reminisced fondly about Rose’s grandfather, remembering numerous good deeds he had done over the course of his seventy-six years.
Aaron and Nick stayed around the entire time, greeting folk and assisting some of the elderly relatives who’d come. Rose could not help noticing Nick’s attentiveness. Since when had he ever been so pleasant and willing to help?
About the time her parents usually retired for the night, Rose felt the need for fresh air and left the house. She strolled over to her grandparents’ Dawdi Haus and sat on the porch steps in the fading light, looking at the zinnias in the deacon’s former wheelbarrow. She smiled through her tears as she recalled her rather impulsive act, but she felt certain Dawdi would approve.
Staring at the sky, she took pleasure in seeing the streaks of pink the vivid sunset left behind. Dawdi would’ve enjoyed sitting here and watching, as he sometimes did. With Mammi by his side.
She heard footsteps and knew it was her father before she actually saw him. She got up from her spot on the step and followed him to the porch chairs.
“Your Dawdi was well loved,” he said quietly.
She nodded. “So many have come already.”
He kept his hat on as he rocked in Dawdi’s hickory rocker.
“You all in?” she asked.
“Pretty near. You?”
She gave a little smile. “Just needed some time alone.”
“And here I come, bargin’ in.”
“No . . . I didn’t mean that, Dat.”
He sighed long and slow as the darkness crept closer. “Ya know, your Dawdi used to sit out late in the summertime, after your mother and I had
been married for a year or so . . . just a-talking ’bout his future grandchildren. He delighted in each new baby as ya came—had a real soft place in his heart for his granddaughters, ’specially.”
“I sure saw that in him,” Rose admitted. “And there are so many of us, I don’t see how we’ll all fit on Friday,” she remarked.
“We’ll have to spill out onto the front porch, maybe. We’ll make do somehow.”
“Too bad Aaron can’t preach one of the sermons, ya know?” Rose felt sadder thinking about that.
“I feel the same way—and Aaron knows Sylvia would’ve liked that.” He paused and pulled on his beard. “Just won’t seem the same.”
Rose watched the remaining light in the western sky, holding her breath as the sun went down on the day of her grandfather’s passing.
“Your Mamm’s takin’ your grandfather’s sudden death awful hard.”
“And Mammi Sylvia?”
“Well, ya know, they were married, what, near sixty years? It’d be like cutting off your arm, I s’pect.”
Rose pondered that. “Just teenagers when they wed.”
They fell silent yet again. The frogs carried on out near the pond behind the barn, and the bats fluttered around near the barn’s edge, scaring away the swallows. Dat seemed oblivious, and Rose wondered if he was ready to get back to the main house, although surely the visits would wind down soon.
“Thought I’d say something right quick ’bout Nick,” her father said abruptly. “Seems he’s set on makin’ his vow come September. Ya might already know.”
“I heard he attended baptismal classes Sunday.”
“Jah.” Dat exhaled audibly. “Aaron said Nick told Bishop Simon he’s on the path to Gelassenheit—the Amish way. Intends to reside quietly in Christ.”
She soaked this in. Her father must’ve sensed she needed to hear this. “Based on that, I don’t understand why Bishop Simon won’t release Aaron from his silencing. Do you, Dat?”
“Well, it’s like anything. You just have to wait an’ see if a person’s bent on doing what he says.”
The Mercy Page 20
