Balm of Gilead

by Adina Senft

  “How many ways can they misquote you if it’s filmed?” Venezia tasted the gingerbread, lifted her brows, and dug in. “It would be you doing the talking, wouldn’t it?”

  “Who knows?” Henry said. The gingerbread melted on his tongue and he nearly groaned in satisfaction. “Ginny, I swear every dessert you make is better than the last.”

  “Never mind changing the subject,” she said, but he could tell she was pleased. “If you’re going to call Dave Petersen back, you’d better have a decision for him.”

  “I already told him no.”

  “Why?” Rafe asked. “No judgment, just curious.”

  “Because aside from the accuracy issue, the whole premise of the show offends me,” Henry said, “and I haven’t even seen it yet.”

  “It’s on tonight,” Venezia pointed out. “We should watch it.”

  He probably should, just so he’d be informed when he talked to Dave, but the thought didn’t hold any pleasure. “I guess what bothers me most is that I don’t hold any hard feelings against anyone in the church, now or then. It was a choice. I made it; it’s done. If other people need to take their anger and alienation public, that’s fine, but I don’t see any reason to.”

  “I can’t say I blame you for wanting to keep your private life private.” Donnée glanced at her husband. “This need to chronicle every minute of our lives and air our dirty laundry in front of millions of strangers is a little odd to us.”

  “I’m in the business of confidentiality,” Rafe said with a chuckle. “The only One who hears about the dirty laundry is the Lord. I find it’s a lot safer that way.”

  “I have to agree,” Henry found himself saying. “And besides, what if the folks around here somehow got wind of it? The kids carry cell phones, I know they do…and people watch these programs on them now, not just on TVs. It would cause a lot of grief and offense, and I’m not prepared to live with that.”

  Rafe nodded in understanding, and then said, “So you’re still a God-fearing man? Do you and Ginny go to church?”

  “I don’t think the Mennonites will have us,” Ginny said. “Not when my ex still goes. And there isn’t a community church closer than Strasburg. We’re in plain country down here.”

  “I think you’d find it helpful,” Rafe said. “Does that mean you don’t plan a church ceremony? Or are you going to do the deed at home in Philly?”

  “I was hoping you could marry us, Daddy, right here in the garden.” Ginny smiled at him with such love that Henry couldn’t help comparing their two families. Hers, who still remained close even though the daughters were scattered all over the country. And his, who made a return to the church a condition of complete fellowship and love. Oh, they’d never say so, but he felt it sure enough. Even with Sarah Yoder he felt that wall of separation that never quite came down—that unspoken requirement for complete friendship that was as palpable as it was invisible.

  “I’d be honored and delighted,” Rafe said. “Have you talked this over with your intended?”

  “Of course,” Ginny said.

  Henry came back to himself with a bump. “Anything you want is fine with me, you know that.”

  “What if, deep down, she wanted you to do this silly show?” Venezia asked him quietly.

  “What?” three voices chorused. Henry couldn’t have said it better himself.

  “Venezia, girl, give your head a shake,” Ginny said. “Haven’t you been listening?”

  “Henry has just got done telling you all the reasons why he can’t do it,” her mother added, frowning. “It’s obvious she doesn’t want him to do it. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking of his career,” Venezia told them all, but her gaze held her sister’s from across the table.

  “My career doesn’t need this,” Henry put in, since no one else seemed inclined to.

  “But maybe you do. Maybe you need this kind of recognition to erase what happened in Denver.”

  “How do you know what happened in Denver?”

  “I told her, never expecting she’d bring it up at my own table, right in front of you.” Ginny glared at her. “So much for confidentiality.”

  “I’m not a pastor—or a pastor’s wife.”

  “This isn’t recognition, Venezia,” he explained gently, before things got out of hand. “Recognition is winning an award, or getting a good review in the Arts section of the Post. This is notoriety.”

  “It all depends on how you present yourself. You could make it a condition of the shoot that you review the final film, and if there’s anything you want them to change or take out, they have to do it.”

  “I don’t think you make those kinds of conditions with TNC,” Ginny observed. “That kinda negates the point.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Venezia insisted. “I’m speaking as the sales manager here. Not only does your pottery get its moment in the spotlight, the Rose Arbor Inn does, too. This could be a windfall for the two of you as you start your lives together.”

  Donnée’s eyes widened. “Girl, you really want your sister’s man to go against his principles so she can get some free nationwide advertising? Do you think these two are going to go for that?”

  Ginny gave her sister a look over a pair of imaginary glasses, and her earrings—sea-green parrots to match her blouse—swung. “Of course not.”

  But Venezia wasn’t giving up. Henry saw the woman who took on big business as part of her workday retrench and come at the pitch another way. “I’m just looking at every angle so Henry can make the best decision. There’s no law says he has to listen. But someone has to bring it up.”

  “You all have given me a lot to think about—Venezia, too.” Henry rose from the table and pushed back his chair. “I need to get back to the studio—this firing will be done. But I’ll be back for supper, and we can watch the show together. Then I’ll see what I think.”

  Venezia subsided into her chair and dug into her gingerbread, but it seemed that Ginny had had enough. She pushed her plate away.

  “Fair enough,” Rafe said. “Want some company?”

  “Daddy, you’ll be getting a tour of the township tomorrow,” Ginny protested.

  Henry pulled her to her feet and kissed her. “It’s okay. It’s been a while since I had a man older than fourteen around the place to talk to. I’ll bring him back safely, I promise.”

  She smiled into his eyes. “All right, then. You can check each other out and kick each other’s tires all you want. Just be here by six or my soufflé will be ruined—and Henry, for goodness’ sake, put some cream on those hands. You make me hurt just looking at you.”

  “Count on it.”

  As they went outside, Henry could already hear female voices clashing against one another, and even Rafe’s footsteps picked up their pace. “You sure you’re ready to take on the women in this family?” his future father-in-law muttered.

  Henry had to laugh. “As long as it’s only one at a time.”

  Chapter 10

  Your kitchen smells wonderful.”

  Ella Peachey put her worn leather handbag on a kitchen chair and breathed in the scent of the elderberry syrup that Sarah had been working on for the past hour or two. Smiling, Sarah dipped a clean spoon in the saucepan and offered it to her.

  “Taste and see whether it’s sweet enough.”

  Obediently, like a small child taking cough syrup, Ella took the spoonful and rolled it around in her mouth with an expression Sarah could only describe as thoughtful.

  “I would say it’s just right,” she said at last. “What’s in it—and how will it help?”

  “This is so easy that I’ll give you the recipe so you can make it at home.” Sarah took the saucepan to the sink and began to fill the series of pint jars she had just sterilized. “You pick a couple of pounds of elderberries—it’s the season for them, so they’re everywhere—and cook them in water until their skins burst. Run that mixture through cheesecloth to get the skins and seeds out.”

>   She screwed a lid on one of the jars and handed it to Ella. The thick syrup inside had a deep purple, jewel-like tone that delighted her. Unfortunately, even though she’d been as careful as she could, her spatulas and the two towels she’d used now bore permanent purple stains that weren’t so delightful. Ah, well. Now they’d be for exclusive use at elderberry time—or when she was making blueberry pie in summer.

  “Then what?” Ella asked, stashing the jar carefully in her handbag.

  “Put the liquid back on the burner and reduce it by half, and then add the same amount of honey. Or if anyone doesn’t like honey, you can use raw sugar. I like the honey, though…it seems more syrupy, doesn’t it? You can use it just like that, but”—she indicated the jar in the purse—“I added a little licorice root and a bit of sage for their soothing effect.”

  Ella nodded, clearly committing the recipe to memory. “I’m glad you gave me some to taste. Sometimes, while these cures are good for you, they taste awful. I had a bit of Linda’s tincture you were giving her.” She made a face, and Sarah laughed. “I was glad it wasn’t me.”

  “You’ll like this one,” Sarah told her. “And the beauty of it is, you can use it just as you would any fruit syrup—even on your pancakes or over ice cream.”

  “Really?” Ella’s gaze took on the focus of intense interest. “And will it keep colds away? The boys don’t get them so much, but Arlon is a martyr to them in the winter, especially if it’s a wet one like last year.”

  Sarah nodded. “Oh yes. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble getting your menfolk to take their cold syrup. It will just be a matter of how many different ways you can use it.”

  Ella’s smile changed her whole face—in fact, Sarah couldn’t ever remember seeing such brightness in her face in all the time she’d known her. Maybe it was simply because here was something she could give her husband that would not only help him, but please his taste buds, too.

  A few worn bills changed hands, and then Sarah was seeing her new patient off down the lane, the lamps on either side of the buggy lit. At five o’clock in the afternoon, the sun was already down, leaving only the afterglow in the sky to see by. The chickens had gone into their shed by themselves, so Sarah had just enough light to count beaks and make sure everyone was in their place before she refilled the waterers with the garden hose for morning.

  When she closed up and walked across the orchard, she pulled her black wool jacket more tightly around her. There would be frost again tomorrow, just as there had been the last several mornings. The frost had its own beauty, but it signified the end of their Indian summer in no uncertain terms.

  And the end of her garden’s season. She would have to get more serious about clearing it out—thank goodness Simon was home, because it was hard work. More than one person could do on her own, especially if an unexpected buggy came rolling down the lane bearing someone else needing a cure. Since Caleb had his responsibilities on Jon Hostetler’s work crew now, Simon would be picking up his little brother’s daytime chores until he found work again.

  Hard work would be good for him. It would keep him from thinking up mischief like chasing girls who were already spoken for.

  As she emerged from under the pear at the corner of the orchard, she caught sight of two dark figures coming down the hill path between her place and Henry’s, one tall and thin, one stocky and solid.

  Henry.

  And a stranger.

  Sarah didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry that Henry was coming to see her. In her deepest heart of hearts, she had to admit that it would be easier if he didn’t. That way, she wouldn’t need to hear about his wedding plans, or about his bride-to-be…though when Priscilla shared the odd detail about her boss in passing conversation, Sarah couldn’t stop herself from pricking up her ears.

  It was like a fine kind of torture—wanting to know and yet dreading to hear.

  Or maybe she was just crazy and needed to turn her mind to something more profitable. Like cleaning up the kitchen. Or compost.

  “Sarah!” Henry had seen her now, though how he could in the falling twilight was a mystery. He must have very good eyesight.

  “Hallo, Henry,” she said as the two men joined her on the lawn. It was gut that her voice sounded so calm—she just hoped no one saw the rapid pulse giving itself away under her bib apron. “How are you?”

  “I’ll get to that,” he said in a tone as easy as hers. “Sarah, this is my future father-in-law, Rafe Mainwaring. Rafe, my neighbor Sarah Yoder. Her boy Caleb has been a lot of help to me since I moved here in April.”

  “Happy to meet you, Mrs. Yoder.” The man extended a hand, and Sarah’s was clasped in a broad, warm grip. His eyes were kind and brimming with interest in a face the color of strong coffee. So this was Ginny’s father. He had a wonderful handshake.

  “Please,” she said, “we do not use honorifics. Call me Sarah.”

  “I’d be happy to.” He released her hand and gazed past her at the orchard, the lawn, the chicken shed, and in the distance, at her garden. “You have a real nice place here. It smells good.”

  That made her smile. “Only because I don’t keep cows. I grow herbs, vegetables, and flowers…though nearly everything is over for the season. Please, come inside. It’s chilly out here.”

  In the lamplit kitchen, she pulled out chairs for them and slid into the oven the chicken pie that she and the boys would be having for supper when Caleb got home. “Can I offer you something to eat? A whoopie pie? A cookie?”

  “No, thanks. We’ll be having our own dinner shortly, and we just stuffed ourselves on gingerbread cake—though the air in here smells good enough to eat,” Henry said. “Have you been baking?”

  “Making elderberry syrup for a patient with a persistent cough.”

  “Ah. Well, this is more of a business call.”

  She had already seen it. “Henry, what has happened to your hands?” Already, she was filling another saucepan at the sink. “Sit, and I’ll brew up a quick soaking bath for you. That must hurt.”

  He spread them on the table and gazed at the cracked, bleeding joints. “I don’t know what happened. I mean, I knew the water here was hard, and clay dries out the skin, so I’ve been using this stuff I got at the drugstore.”

  “A moisturizer?”

  “I guess. Smelled like a flower garden. Then I ordered some gloves to give my hands some protection, and it’s gotten worse. Now it’s getting so bad people are remarking on it like you just did.”

  “What kind of gloves?” Sarah liked Rafe’s voice. It was deep and resonant, the way she imagined an Old Testament prophet’s might have sounded. She put the saucepan on the stove and turned on the flame.

  Henry looked a little confused. “Why would that matter? Not gardening gloves, certainly. I ordered a box of those thin latex ones that surgeons use. I need to be close to the clay—though I have to say, even that barrier is almost too much. It might be necessary, but it sure is distracting.”

  “Then I recommend you find something else,” Rafe said. “Looks to me like you’re allergic to latex.”

  Sarah stared at Henry’s poor hands and wondered how long it might have taken her to come to that diagnosis if she’d been left to her own devices. She wore latex gloves herself sometimes, when she was working with nettles, for instance. Since they had no effect on her, it would never have occurred to her that someone could be allergic to them.

  “How did you know?” she finally said to Rafe, feeling very humble indeed. “Are these always the symptoms?”

  Rafe nodded. “One of my congregation owns a restaurant—best cheese steaks you’ll ever eat, if you’re ever on Broad Street—and when the new food prep laws came in a few years ago, they had to wear gloves. Turned out he and some of his kitchen staff were allergic to latex, and their hands looked similar to this. Not quite as bad, though. They hadn’t let it go on so long before they said something.” He cleared his throat meaningfully.

  “I’m saying someth
ing now,” Henry said. “Can you help me, Sarah?”

  “If you stop wearing the gloves, it should clear up.”

  “But my hands were cracked before the gloves. That’s why I got them. To help with that. I have to do something different—my hands are my livelihood.”

  She ran over what she knew and came up empty. “Let me get my book. Once this water warms up, I’ll make a quick calendula bath for them—it’s an antibacterial so at least it will clean out the wounds. They’re looking pretty angry.” Hurrying into the compiling room, she called, “How have you managed to work like that?”

  “It hasn’t been easy.”

  The two men’s voices fell into a low conversation as Henry pointed out things in her kitchen that weren’t likely in that of his future mother-in-law. Like the propane fridge and stove, and the pole lantern, the jars of elderberry syrup, and the rows of pickled beets on the counter that she’d put up this morning and hadn’t got put away downstairs in the pantry yet.

  From her shelves, she chose a jar of calendula tincture and spooned a tablespoon into a bowl. Then she got out the book of herbal medicine that Ruth had recommended and had come in the mail.

  Chafed skin, chapped hands, chilblains. Hm. The cure was the same for all three: the sticky sap from the tree the country people called balm of Gilead. In spite of her hurry, Sarah smiled as the verse came to mind—Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there?

  She carried the bowl of fragrant liquid into the kitchen and carefully poured lukewarm water into it to dilute it. When it was ready, she set it in front of Henry. “Soak your hands in this for fifteen minutes while we talk.”