Through the Deep Waters

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Dinah

  Dinah watched the buggy roll away from the churchyard and her stomach lurched. Unless she wanted to walk back to the hotel—an unpleasant thought given the already high temperature and dusty streets—she had to stay for the service. And wasn’t that why she’d come? To attend the service?

  She fell behind the others as they moved as a group toward the church steps. Her uniform marked her as one of them, but she wasn’t. Not really. She’d felt so alone all week, but in her solitude Ruthie’s comment from her first day in Florence had continually played in the back of her heart. “God loves you very much,” Ruthie had said. From the very center of her being, Dinah longed for someone to love her very much. People never had. Not even Rueben, who’d at least been kind to her. But God wasn’t people. Maybe … just maybe … God could love her if she took the time to get to know Him. And since church was the place Ruthie had declared the best for meeting God, Dinah had come.

  Ruthie darted straight to the front to her family, just as she had last week, but this time she didn’t ask Dinah to join her. The servers all filed into a bench on the right in the middle of the worship room. They didn’t cast so much as a glance in Dinah’s direction, so even though there was room for her, she didn’t join them. Instead, she chose a spot on the very back bench on the left side. As far from the others as she could be without sitting outside the doors. She gripped her hands together in her lap and listened to the parishioners quietly chat with one another as they waited for the service to begin.

  Dinah’s chest felt tight and aching. She might as well be invisible, sitting there all alone. She’d told Ruthie she didn’t care what the others thought, but she did care. She cared too much. When Ruthie had accused her of thinking herself too good for everyone, she’d wanted to both laugh and cry. Too good for everyone? Such a ridiculous thought. But it was better to have them think a lie than to know the truth. So she’d allowed the misconception even though it meant being shunned.

  Shunned … All she could ever remember was being cast aside. Belittled. Mistreated. Memories of hurtful comments and open snubs from those she’d encountered from childhood on rose from Dinah’s mind to haunt her. She cringed, imagining the people now filling the benches—good people, honest people, pure people—discovering just how unworthy she truly was. She had no business sitting among them. No God, not even one humble enough to occupy this simple dwelling, would want anything to do with her. She was only fooling herself, trying to grab on to something that didn’t exist.

  She shouldn’t stay. Not until she’d had a chance to redeem herself. Next year—after she won Mr. Harvey’s favor by working hard and earned the position as server—she would come back. Then God might have reason to love her.

  Voices faded to silence as the preacher strode through the door and headed up the aisle to the front. In a few seconds, if they did what they’d done last week, everyone would stand to sing. And she’d be able to sneak out, unnoticed. Her heart pounding with the desire to escape, she waited until Mr. Mead called out the title of the opening hymn and invited everyone to rise. She bolted upright and, with her head bowed low, turned to hurry out of the building as the people began belting out, “Shall we gather at the river …”

  But she’d only taken one step when someone moved into her pathway. A tall, broad someone in a dark suit and dusty boots who filled the small space between the benches, leaving not even an inch of passageway. She lifted her head, intending to ask the person to excuse her, but when her gaze lit on his face, her tongue seemed to stick to the roof of her mouth.

  Mr. Ackerman smiled—a bashful, gentle, almost imperceptible upturning of his lips—and whispered, “May I join you?”

  Dinah blinked, gathering her senses. He’d asked to sit beside her. Instead of passing her by or telling her she wasn’t welcome on his bench, he’d asked to join her. The tightness in her chest eased as warmth flooded her. She couldn’t speak, but she gave a quick nod and turned to face the front, although she couldn’t resist peeking sideways at the big man standing beside her.

  Mr. Ackerman held his head high and added his voice to the singing. Dinah didn’t know the words, so she stood and listened, finding great pleasure in the deep, rich baritone flowing from Mr. Ackerman’s throat. “ ‘Yes, we’ll gather at the river, the beautiful, the beautiful river; gather with the saints at the river that flows by the throne of God.’ ” Dinah didn’t know where this river would be found, but the expression on Mr. Ackerman’s face as he sang—relaxed, happy, even eager—made her pine for the opportunity to go there.

  The song ended, and Mr. Mead gestured for everyone to sit. He lifted his Bible and called out, “Turn to Matthew, the first chapter.”

  All across the room, pages rustled as people opened their Bibles. Mr. Ackerman laid his worn Bible on his knee and opened it gently, as if fearful his large fingers would damage the fragile pages. When he found the page he wanted, he slipped his hand beneath the Book and held it so Dinah could see, too. Her face went hot, but she tipped sideways a bit to peek at the open pages.

  She followed along as Mr. Mead read a long list of strange names who begat other strange names. Some of the names, such as Josaphat and Zorobabel, sounded so funny they made Dinah want to giggle. But no one else seemed amused, so she bit the inside of her cheeks and held her humor inside.

  When he’d reached the end of the names, Mr. Mead read, “ ‘So all the generations from Abraham to David are fourteen generations; and from David until the carrying away into Babylon are fourteen generations; and from the carrying away into Babylon unto Christ are fourteen generations.’ ”

  He set the Bible aside and smiled at the congregation. “Not very intriguing reading, is it? I saw a couple of you yawn.” Self-conscious chuckles rumbled, and Mr. Mead’s smile broadened. “And why do all those names matter? It matters because God wants us to know Jesus’s lineage. God wants us to know Jesus’s forebears. He wants us to know from where Jesus came.”

  From where Jesus came … Dinah’s ears began to ring with such intensity the preacher’s next words were lost to her. Lineage mattered to God. And what was her lineage? Her mother was a prostitute and her father someone who’d paid to lie with her mother. Shame, hot and consuming, swept through her. If lineage mattered to God, she was already lost.

  She could change her position as chambermaid to server, but nothing would ever change her parentage. Her body trembled. She didn’t belong here. Not now. And not ever—not if lineage held enough importance to be printed out in great detail in the Bible, which Ruthie had said was God’s Book.

  On shaking legs she scrambled to her feet and stumbled past Mr. Ackerman, who looked at her with surprise. He stretched his hand to her as if to hold her back, but she skittered around it and darted out the open doors.

  Amos

  Amos watched Miss Hubley’s dark skirt disappear and then listened to her feet pounding down the front steps. A few frowning faces turned to see who caused the ruckus, but Preacher Mead continued as if there hadn’t been any disturbance. So the people faced the front again. Amos kept his gaze aimed forward, but he could no longer focus on the sermon.

  Why had Miss Hubley run out? She’d looked frightened. Panicky. The same way she’d looked the day he found her sleeping on the porch. The same way she’d looked when he approached her beneath the clothesline in the hotel’s backyard. His heart turned over. Somehow he must have alarmed her again. Had he been too forward, asking to sit beside her and then sharing his Bible with her?

  He’d meant nothing by it. He arrived nearly late again, and by sitting in the back, he didn’t disturb those who were already settled. He usually sat back here alone. Finding her on the bench had surprised him, but when she said he could sit there, too, he’d been pleased. He liked having some company. But maybe she’d chosen the seat so she could be alone. Of course she wouldn’t be impolite enough to refuse his request to sit beside her. He’d intruded. Then when he held his Bible for her to share, he embarrassed her sinc
e she apparently didn’t have one. So she felt the need to leave.

  Remorse soured his stomach. Lord, I didn’t mean to chase her from the church, a place where all should feel welcome. He needed to apologize. But how? Every time he neared her, she ran away like a scared rabbit. His chest constricted. He supposed by now he should be used to people shying away from him. So often his limping gait made folks uncomfortable. Even his own father kept his distance, as if Amos’s bad leg were reason for embarrassment. If he went after her, he’d probably only make things worse. And he had enough troubles right now, what with eggs disappearing daily from the chickens’ roosts and some small animal making a feast of two of his birds last week. But somehow he needed to convey his regret for troubling her.

  He turned his attention to the front, determined to set aside his worries and listen to the minister’s words—how believers, who’d been adopted as brothers and sisters of Christ, could claim the same lineage as Jesus Himself. An uplifting, encouraging message if ever there was one. But his gaze lit on the reddish hair of the preacher’s daughter, and his thoughts turned to Miss Hubley again. He could ask Miss Mead to deliver an apology. Then his conscience would be clear.

  The service closed with an enthusiastic delivery of “O for a Thousand Tongues to Sing.” Amos remained in his spot until Miss Mead made her way down the aisle. Before she could step outside, he called her name and she turned. Her face lit up when she spotted him, and unexpectedly heat filled his face. Maybe he shouldn’t beckon to her right there in the church where people might misunderstand. But she was already weaving between others to reach him, so he would give his message and then depart.

  “Good morning, Mr. Ackerman. I only have a moment—the buggy will be here soon to transport me back to the hotel.” Miss Mead’s cheerful voice matched the look of bright expectation on her face.

  Amos cleared his throat. “I only need a moment of your time. I wondered if you would tell Miss Hubley something for me.”

  It seemed Miss Mead’s expression clouded, but she nodded.

  “Please tell her I’m sorry if I embarrassed her this morning.”

  Now he couldn’t deny the scowl climbing her face. “What did you do?”

  His cheeks burned hotter than the late July sun. He swallowed. “She will know. Just, please, tell her I meant no harm and I hope she will come back to church next Sunday.” He paused. He wasn’t a very good judge of women’s feelings, but he sensed Miss Mead was not happy. He added hesitantly, “Do you mind giving her the message?”

  A smile formed, but it seemed pasted on rather than genuine. Miss Mead gave a brusque nod. “Of course, Mr. Ackerman, I will give your message to Miss Hubley.” She glanced toward the open doorway. “Oh, there’s my ride. I need to go.” She looked at him again, and something akin to pleading showed in her eyes. “Was there anything else?”

  He shook his head, glad to be done. “No. Enjoy the rest of your day, Miss Mead.”

  “Yes. Thank you. You, too, Mr. Ackerman.” She turned and left, but she lacked the usual bounce he’d always seen in her step.

  Amos frowned. What had caused Miss Mead’s change in demeanor? He hoped it wasn’t anything he’d done. Insulting one woman on this Sunday was already one too many. Then he recalled his brothers complaining about women being moody. Since they’d both courted several women before choosing a wife, they had more experience with females than he did. He would trust their judgment. Likely Miss Mead, although generally sunny, was having a moody day. As long as she would deliver his message—and he couldn’t imagine a minister’s daughter being dishonest with him—she could be moody all she wanted. He was more concerned about Miss Hubley’s feelings.

  Dinah

  Dinah scuttled from the hotel room, her arms overflowing with linens from the bed. Ruthie stepped directly in her pathway, forcing Dinah to halt. The look of displeasure on the other girl’s face sent a shiver of apprehension across her frame. After nearly a week of not speaking to Ruthie, Dinah felt strange addressing her roommate, but a nervous question found its way from her throat. “Wh-what’s wrong?”

  “Why did you leave service early?”

  Dinah crunched her lips tight. The pain of realizing she had no place in God’s house returned, stinging her anew.

  Ruthie waited a few seconds, then drew in a breath that expanded the bibbed front of her apron. She appeared to be gathering courage. “I have a message for you.”

  From Mr. Phillips, who’d been a chef in Chicago? From Miss Flo? Someone else from the Yellow Parrot who’d discovered where she’d gone? Dinah held her breath, her pulse pounding so hard she wondered if Ruthie could hear it.

  “Amos Ackerman—from church—asked me to tell you he’s sorry for embarrassing you.” For a few seconds Ruthie’s lips twitched as if a bumblebee were trapped inside her mouth. Then she blurted, “What did he do to make you leave?”

  Dinah hugged the linens to her chest. All he’d done was sit beside her. Share his Bible with her. Acknowledge her presence. He’d been kind. Dinah said, “Nothing.”

  Ruthie tipped her head and raised one reddish eyebrow. “He must have done something or he wouldn’t have asked me to tell you he’s sorry. Men don’t apologize for no reason.”

  To her experience, men didn’t even apologize when they had reason. Dinah stepped past Ruthie. “He didn’t do anything. He doesn’t owe me an apology.” She hurried off before Ruthie could ask anything else.

  Dinah dumped her armful of linens into the laundry chute, then stood staring down the dark tunnel. Although she needed to return to work, she allowed herself a few moments to remember the gentle smile Mr. Ackerman offered as he’d asked to sit beside her and the way his deep voice had filled her chest to overflowing when he sang.

  He thought he’d embarrassed her somehow, and he felt bad enough to send Ruthie with a message of apology. The warmth that had enveloped her when he’d slipped onto the bench next to her flowed over her again, and she closed her eyes, savoring the essence of acceptance it offered. But then she gave herself a shake. Hadn’t she determined she had no place in a church with decent folks? Her lineage didn’t belong, and neither did she.

  She slammed the door on the chute and marched up the hallway in search of Ruthie. She’d tell her to send a message back to Mr. Ackerman. He didn’t owe her an apology, but she owed him one for running off the way she had. Once she’d asked Ruthie to tell him so, she would erase all memory of Mr. Ackerman and his kindness from her mind.

  Amos

  Amos scraped the rake across the dirty straw, chuckling as the fluffy yellow chicks cheeped and scampered away from the wooden prongs. “Here now,” he said gently, “I am not after you. Only the mess you made.”

  For such little things, they sure managed to muck up his barn. But he would forgive them. They were so small, so innocent, and they stirred his sympathy in their helplessness. Just as the brown-haired chambermaid with eyes of palest blue who worked at the Clifton Hotel stirred his sympathy.

  He released a little self-deprecating snort. Now even the chicks were reminding him of Dinah Hubley? He paused and leaned against the rake handle, absently watching the chicks find the courage to return and peck at his boot strings. Why couldn’t he erase her from his mind? Each day for the past three days, she had crept into his thoughts at odd times, stealing his focus and making his chest go tight in an unfamiliar way. He’d taken to thinking of her as Dinah rather than Miss Hubley. Dinah … The name suited her. Ma would say it was an unpretentious name—pretty yet humble.

  There in the barn with only chicks for witnesses, he dared to speak her name, softly, sampling its sound. “Dinah.” Then again, stronger. “Dinah.” He smiled. Yes, he liked the way it rolled from his tongue. He laughed a little, glancing around to make sure no one overheard his silliness. Which was also silly since no one else was there. He laughed more and the chicks scattered, leaving him standing alone.

  Then he sobered. Alone … Just the way Dinah had been on the porch the first time h
e’d seen her. And on the bench at church this past Sunday. The way he was every day here at his farm. Words from Genesis, spoken by God Himself, whispered to his memory: “It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him.”

  He tipped his head, frowning, wondering. In the past when a thought refused to leave his head, he’d eventually accepted the idea was not his own but was planted by God. His chicken farm proved that God-planted ideas bore fruit. So could it be this girl—this girl who was so alone—was meant to alleviate his aloneness?

  Of course, after today he wouldn’t be alone anymore. The speckled pups he’d located at a farm south of town were finally big enough to leave their mother, and he would bring them home on Thursday when he finished delivering eggs to his customers in town. He’d chosen two pups, both boys, and he intended to name them Shadrach and Meshach. Or Samson and Gideon. Either way, he hoped they’d live up to their names, becoming strong protectors for the chickens. He’d lost a hen only last night to a fox.

  The chicks’ peeping pulled him to the present. He set the rake to work once more. But another thought sneaked into his mind, bringing his busy hands to a halt. The puppies would give him company, yes, but he could hardly consider a pair of dogs, no matter how helpful, helpmeets.

  He whispered the name that would not depart from his thoughts. “Dinah …” Did God mean for her to be his?

  Ruthie

  Ruthie whisked the feather duster over the little scrolled shelves on either side of the dresser’s mirror and wished for the dozenth time since Sunday morning that she could sit down with her mother for a long talk. With the half circle–shaped shelves free of even a speck of dust, she draped the delicately embroidered doilies on the shelves, then centered the sweet figurines of cherubs just so on the snowy doilies. Satisfied with their positioning, she moved on to dust the pair of tables standing sentry on either side of the bed.