Amanda Weds a Good Man

by Naomi King

  Yet when Wyman stood in his youngest son’s doorway, the sound of deep, even breathing suggested that Simon had been asleep since Amanda had tucked him in nearly an hour ago. Wags raised his head but he remained silent, curled up on the bed to fit the curve of Simon’s bent legs and backside. When Wyman crept close enough to lean over the twin-size bed for a look at his son, Simon didn’t stir. He didn’t grin in the darkness or muffle chuckles beneath the covers, either.

  At least SOMEONE’S sleeping. Best to quiz him about these animal noises another time. Perhaps Wags had let out a woof, or maybe one of the twins had yipped during a nightmare and her sister had imagined it to be an animal. No doubt they were still upset about Jemima’s cross words and not sleeping well because of them.

  As he went back into the hallway, Wyman realized that Alice Ann was asleep on his shoulder, so he settled her back into her own small bed. He intended to tell Cora and Dora that the wolf was gone for the night, yet the sounds of their deep breathing—and Amanda’s—seemed reason enough to leave them be. It made a touching sight, the three of them nestled together so peacefully, so Wyman eased under the covers again, careful not to wake them. He’d spent a lot of time being careful this week, it seemed.

  Tomorrow will be better. Someday we’ll look back on these incidents and laugh.

  When Wyman rose before dawn the next morning, he was pleased that Amanda and the twins were already up and about—but his hopefulness for a better day was short-lived. Vera stood outside the bathroom door in her robe, hugging herself, waiting her turn, so Wyman went on downstairs. He could shave later. . . .

  Amanda accepted his good-morning kiss on the cheek. “Feeling better?” he murmured.

  She shrugged, struggling with a smile. “At least the twins are helping Alice Ann dress, as though nothing happened last night—”

  “Sounded to me like plenty was going on,” Jemima remarked. She lowered herself to the bench beside the kitchen door with a loud groan, holding her stockings and her sturdy black shoes. “But then, I was up and down all night with a cranky stomach and these achy old feet. . . .”

  Wyman decided it was a good time to slip upstairs and shave, for listening to Jemima’s complaints would do nothing to improve his day. “Gut morning, daughter,” he said, squeezing Vera’s shoulder as she reached the bottom step.

  “Jah, we’ll see about that.”

  With a sigh he ascended the wooden stairs, only to find one of the twins outside the closed bathroom door, shifting from one foot to the other in an unmistakable dance of desperation. “Do you want to go outside?” Wyman asked. “I’ll help you open the outhouse door—”

  Was this Cora or Dora? Her eyes widened and she shook her head even as she recrossed her little legs.

  “Ah. What if Vera or your mamm takes you out there?” he asked.

  After a moment’s consideration, the little girl nodded and went down the wooden stairs with a rapid tip-tapping of her shoes. By the time Wyman reached the kitchen, Vera was grabbing their wraps and hurrying outside with the little girl, so he decided to start the livestock chores. Amanda had helped Jemima finish dressing and they seemed to have breakfast under control. The salty-sweet aroma of sizzling bacon soothed him. Perhaps the day would right itself now. . . .

  He’d barely gotten to the barn door before he heard a little voice cry out, “Oh, but I can’t go here! I’ll fall right down that big ole hole!”

  Wyman kept his chuckle to himself as he saw the four-year-old dart back to the house with Vera a few steps behind her. How could it be that Amanda’s girls had never used a privy? That was something she should help the twins get accustomed to, because while everyone in Clearwater had indoor plumbing, most families had kept their outhouses for when they hosted church services and other events.

  Eddie and Pete came out to help with the horse chores, and then the three of them went inside for breakfast. As the women put on the scrambled eggs, sticky buns, and bacon, the boys steered Simon to the table and sat down, out of the way . . . doing their part so the morning meal would go smoothly. Wyman was slipping Alice Ann into her high chair as everyone else took their seats. He sat down at the head of the table just as Lizzie hurried in with her kapp strings fluttering back over her shoulders.

  “Took forever to get my turn in the bathroom this morning,” she said breathlessly. She slid into her chair and bowed her head for the prayer.

  Beside her, Vera cleared her throat. “Maybe if you hadn’t been reading my diary, you would’ve gotten here sooner.”

  Amanda dropped the spoon she’d been putting into the bowl of fried potatoes. “Elizabeth Louise! You know better than to—”

  Lizzie’s face turned red as she grabbed the table’s edge with both hands. “It was out there on your bed,” she protested feebly. “How was I to know it was your—”

  “It says DIARY on the front,” Vera countered, glaring at her. “Is that what you’re doing when you lock yourself in our room? Snooping in my stuff?”

  “Girls, let’s stop right here.” Wyman couldn’t imagine the two of them coming to blows, but then he’d never guessed they would speak with such animosity, either. The other kids sat in stunned silence, wide-eyed, waiting for this drama to play out.

  “And why would you read someone’s private diary, Lizzie?” Amanda asked as she went to stand behind her. “At the very least you owe your sister an apology.”

  When Lizzie hung her head the dam burst. After a few moments of hiccing and trying to control her tears, she blurted, “I wanted to see if—if Vera was writing anything about me . . . saying she didn’t like me, or she thought I was different, or stupid or—”

  Wyman’s eyes widened. Of all the kids, thirteen-year-old Lizzie was having the toughest time adjusting to their blended family and her new home but he’d never expected to hear her talk this way. “Why would Vera say such things?” he asked cautiously. “You two girls seemed to be such gut friends when you were getting your mamm and me together.”

  Sniffling miserably, Lizzie shrugged. “Nobody else likes me . . . or wants to be my friend at recess or—”

  “Oh, Lizzie, I’m your friend—and I’m happy to be your sister, too.” Compassion replaced Vera’s anger as she grasped Lizzie’s wrist. “I’m sorry the kids are being mean, and— Well, Teacher Elsie can be . . . a pill sometimes.”

  “I’m your friend, too, Lizzie—if you want me to be,” Pete murmured.

  Amanda draped an arm around Lizzie’s trembling shoulders. “Maybe I should come to school and talk with the teacher about—”

  “Oh, please don’t, Mamm!” Lizzie blurted. “Then the kids will think I needed my mamma to make things all better for me.” She gazed at Vera with red-rimmed eyes. “I’m sorry I snooped in your diary. That’s not a gut way to treat somebody who’s been trying to help me figure things out here and fit in at school.”

  Wyman pondered Lizzie’s words as she and Vera continued to make up. What did she mean by figure things out here and fit in at school? The very reason Plain folks dressed alike and followed the Ordnung was so that everyone belonged and no one stood out as different. He suspected his troubled daughter was keeping some of her trials and tribulations to herself—or exaggerating them in her frustration—even as he knew Elsie Schmucker could indeed be difficult. But speculating aloud that Elsie had landed her teaching position because she was the bishop’s daughter wouldn’t improve this situation for Lizzie. “Shall we pray over this fine breakfast now that you girls are getting along again?” he asked.

  As everyone bowed their heads, Wyman gave silent thanks for order being restored. The meal proceeded without any further disruptions. When Pete and Lizzie left for school, Eddie went out with Simon to feed and water Wags. Amanda, Jemima, and Vera began clearing the table, so Wyman offered to assist Cora and Dora with the chicken chores before he went to the elevator. It seemed like a good way to spend some time with
them, and to become more familiar with any mannerisms that might help him tell the twins apart—and it was a chance to discuss the “wolf” that was pestering them at night.

  He helped the three little girls with their jackets and then they headed outside. His heart fluttered when each of the twins took one of his hands as they walked out to the chicken house. Alice Ann toddled along happily behind them, and as the sun brightened the horizon, Wyman felt hopeful that the day’s difficulties were behind them. As they stepped inside the chicken house, however, he stopped.

  The white bucket they used to fill the chickens’ water tank had pale yellow liquid in the bottom . . . with a little wad of white tissue floating in it.

  Wyman noticed that the twins walked quickly past it, to scoop feed out of the bin in the corner. “Chick, chick, chick!” they called out. The feeders were made from gallon plastic milk jugs with sections cut away, hanging along the wall so the cracked grain was off the ground yet easy for the birds to reach. As Cora and Dora filled each feeder, the hens scrambled around them. Alice Ann laughed, not one bit afraid of the clucking birds.

  For a moment Wyman wondered if Amanda should handle this matter of where the girls went to the bathroom. But there’s no time like the present. And YOU are present.

  Which twin had dashed away from the outhouse earlier this morning? He’d gone into the barn, so he hadn’t seen a desperate little daughter dash in here, probably with a tissue from the box in the kitchen. But it made sense to him that she would have come here as a last resort.

  “Girls, we need to talk about what’s in this bucket,” Wyman said, beckoning them with his finger. “The chickens will get very sick if someone uses it for a toilet and then we pour their water from it. Cora, did you come back out here instead of using the bathroom upstairs—or the outhouse?”

  The girl to his right shook her head emphatically. “No, not me.”

  “Me neither,” Dora insisted from his other side. Then she gasped, clapping her hands to either side of her face. “The wolf! What if it was that scary ole—”

  “Jah!” Cora chimed in, also clapping her hands to her face. “It must’ve been the wolf.”

  Two identical girls were gazing at him with such wide, innocent eyes that Wyman had to clench his teeth to keep from laughing. He’d just been outfoxed by four-year-olds who surely looked exactly as their mother had at that age. Yes, he should correct them and insist that lying was wrong. But after enduring the breakfast table drama between Lizzie and Vera, it was nice to have something to chuckle at . . . and maybe he could still work this situation into a lesson about taking responsibility for their actions.

  Wyman crouched so he was at the twins’ eye level. “Can you two be big, brave girls for me?” he asked in a serious tone.

  Cora and Dora glanced at each other and then back at him. As one, they nodded, caught up in the challenge.

  “Next time that wolf scratches on your wall at night, tell him in no uncertain terms that he is not to use the livestock buckets for a toilet. Will you do that for me?”

  The twins considered this. They nodded solemnly despite their apparent doubts about confronting their spook.

  “And then, will you get back into your own bed?” Wyman continued with a gentle smile. “Alice Ann will see that you’re being brave, so she won’t be scared, either. Your mamm and I will be so pleased that you’re staying in your room like big girls,” he continued earnestly. “And once that wolf knows you’re not afraid of him anymore, he probably won’t come back.”

  As Dora and Cora gazed at each other, Wyman sensed they were communicating in that inexplicable way twins had . . . silently deciding how they would carry out his request. The one he’d decided was Dora looked him in the eye. “If the wolf says no, will you come to our room and talk to him?”

  Wyman’s lips quirked. “Jah, I can do that for you.”

  Their faces brightened with relief and their sudden hugs made Wyman tingle with an overwhelming love. Alice Ann crowded in, too, and the four of them enjoyed a moment of rare sweetness—a blessing he wouldn’t have known had he not married Amanda.

  Wyman sighed as he gave his girls one more squeeze. “How about if Alice Ann and I gather the eggs,” he said as he stood up, “while you twins empty the bucket in the outhouse and ask your mamm for some bleach so we can disinfect it? Then we’ll fill the chickens’ watering tanks and be done here.”

  Dora and Cora scampered off with the bucket, eventually to have their mamm ask them why it needed a special cleaning. Wyman smiled at the way this little incident had played out. Perhaps it would be a reason for Amanda to chuckle with him this evening when they reviewed the day’s events.

  He took an egg basket from its hook on the wall, smiling at Alice Ann. “How about if you find the eggs and I carry them? There’s a job to fit every hand, ain’t so?”

  Alice Ann’s laughter rang around the ceiling beams as she hurried toward the nearest nesting boxes on her short legs. While the chickens were gathered around their feeders near the doorway, she pointed eagerly to the eggs in the lower row of nesting boxes, gazing up at him with irresistible eyes. Viola’s eyes.

  No, they’re Alice Ann’s eyes. She’s my child and Amanda’s now.

  It was a startling thought. And a little later, as Wyman walked across the road to the grain elevator to begin his workday, he felt subtle inner shiftings that signaled major changes—for himself and for his family.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Amanda settled on the crowded pew bench Sunday morning and let out a sigh. Not yet eight o’clock in the morning and she was exhausted . . . frustrated . . . feeling anything but worshipful. It was a blessing to have Cora and Dora on either side of her, for she hadn’t met many of the Clearwater women yet. And here in Bishop Uriah Schmucker’s home, she felt all eyes were on her and her children as the newcomers—the grafted-on family that would be closely observed to see if they followed the faith the way folks in this district did.

  “I’m Mildred Schmucker, married to Bishop Uriah,” the woman to her left murmured. “You must be Wyman’s new wife. And who are these girls in the pink dresses?”

  “This is Dora and Cora.” Amanda sensed Mildred was about to say something else about the girls’ attire, so she kept talking. “Nice to meet you, Mildred. I’m Amanda, and my daughter Lizzie is sitting farther back. At thirteen, she’s in her final year of school.”

  “Jah, Lizzie. I’ve heard about her, too.”

  A hush fell over the houseful of people. The bishop, the deacon, and the two preachers strode to the center of the huge, crowded room. Amanda took the twins’ hands, the signal that they were to quit wiggling and whispering. Was it her imagination, or had the women on all sides of her looked at her girls as though they disapproved of them? How could two quiet, well-behaved four-year-olds possibly be cause for such downturned mouths?

  Amanda prayed for the patience, wisdom, and strength to adjust to this new district full of strangers and different ways. She asked God for a solution to having one main bathroom, and for Jemima’s inability to get out of it in a timely manner. She petitioned for restful nights and restoration of the friendship Lizzie and Vera had enjoyed before they shared a room as sisters. She had so many concerns that she was just getting warmed up, ready to pray for Wyman’s sons—her sons now—when a man on the far side of the room sang out the beginning note of the first hymn.

  The familiar words should have soothed her, for Amanda had sung this slow, steady song all her life, yet doubts pricked at her as though cockleburs had crept into her clothing. When Preacher Isaac Yoder began the first sermon, Amanda immediately missed Lamar Lapp and the ministers who served her congregation in Bloomingdale. She recalled how Sam Lambright and Vernon Gingerich had so lovingly preached her wedding service, too.

  Isaac’s low monotone sounded less than inspiring as he preached about absolute obedience to God. Amanda tried to focus
on his message, but the room was too warm . . . the minister droned on and on. . . .

  She sat up with a gasp. Had someone pinched her arm? Amanda looked over to find Mildred glaring at her. My stars, I fell asleep—and with church not even half over.

  She rubbed her forehead, putting on a smile when Cora and Dora gazed at her with such endearing expressions. She was glad Vera was tending Alice Ann while Simon sat with his dat. Amanda wondered if Lizzie was being stared at by the girls with whom she was sitting, but she didn’t dare turn around to find her daughter’s face.

  Going to her knees for prayer brought Amanda’s attention back to the service, and singing another hymn kept her awake. But when the bishop stood to deliver the second, longer sermon, she felt as though Uriah Schmucker had singled her out for a lecture.

  “‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands, as unto the Lord,’” he quoted from the book of Ephesians. “‘For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church . . . Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their own husbands in every thing.’” Uriah then gazed right at her with his piercing eyes.

  Amanda soon realized that the bishop intended to concentrate on those verses alone, rather than include the following verses about how husbands should love their wives as Christ loved the church. Hadn’t the deacon read to them about how a man that loved his wife loved himself? The ministers in Bloomingdale had often preached on this passage from Ephesians, but they had held husbands as responsible as wives in keeping the faith as Christ had intended.

  Oh, but this bishop and this district were going to test her before she found a way to fit in. . . .