The Redemption of Sarah Cain

by Beverly Lewis

  Sunday night, January 23

  On nights like this, I can’t help but think about Grandpa Cain, wishing he and I could go walking together along the beach. Like when I was a little girl. I’d like to know what he would say about things. Would he have agreed with Mamma—entrusting us children to the care of an unbeliever? Really makes me wonder how Aunt Sarah turned out the way she did, having such a thoughtful, loving father like Grandpa was. Seems to me a lot of him somehow got missed getting passed along to her.

  I need to be talking things over with Fannie. If it wasn’t for her and the rest of the People, I s’pose I’d be floundering like some fish struggling to live on the Rhode Island shoreline.

  I can’t help thinking that Aunt Sarah seemed to perk up her ears, maybe too much, over Susie Lapp stopping in sometime this week. She can’t pull the wool over my eyes. I’m perty sure she has something up her sleeve about that.

  Lord, please lead me beside your still waters . . . calm my troubled soul.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sarah stood at the side of Ivy’s pitiful bed, staring down. Mentally, she compared it to her own magnificent bedstead, nearly three thousand miles away. A startling thought seized her: On which side of the bed had her sister breathed her last? She had no way of knowing and wouldn’t inquire of Lydia. Her niece—all the children—were struggling with their great loss, she knew.

  She would literally grit her teeth and hope the bed linens were indeed fresh.

  As a youngster, she was often glad she had never had to share a room with her teenage sister. Ivy’s idea of orderliness was a far cry from her own.

  There had been one occasion, when the house seemed to overflow with company, that their mother had planned for the two of them to sleep in the same bed in Ivy’s room . . .

  ‘‘Do we have to?’’ Ivy whined.

  ‘‘I don’t have cooties,’’ Sarah had spoken up.

  ‘‘I’ll draw a line down the middle, and you better not cross it—not even with your bony knees,’’ Ivy insisted after Mother left the room to entertain the visitors. ‘‘I hate this as much as you do.’’

  ‘‘Couldn’t possibly,’’ Sarah retaliated. She felt quite rejected. ‘‘Am I such a horrid little sister?’’

  ‘‘When it comes to certain things, you are.’’

  Unwilling to hear a recital of her faults, she did not risk the question. ‘‘So . . . I’m not perfect, and we both know it. Let’s drop it there.’’

  ‘‘Being blunt doesn’t become you, Sarah Cain.’’

  She recoiled at the sound of her own name. ‘‘I hate the way you say that.’’

  ‘‘I hate the way you look at me!’’

  Sarah fought back tears. ‘‘Why can’t you be more like . . . like—’’

  ‘‘Like who?’’

  ‘‘Never mind.’’ She bit her tongue. Their peace-loving father would be altogether displeased if he had any notion what she was thinking—bringing him into their spat.

  ‘‘I’m telling Mother,’’ Ivy said. ‘‘She’ll have to make a pallet for you on the floor, because you’re not getting anywhere near my bed.’’

  Sarah glared at the bed with built-in bookshelf at the head. Sleeping all night long in the same space with Ivy was the last thing she wanted, too!

  Poking her head into the hallway, she checked to see that her sister was out of sight. Then she went to the bed and knelt down as if to pray but clenched her tiny fists and pounded the spread. ‘‘Please, God, can’t you make Ivy nicer to me?’’

  No more fighting over territorial matters. Ivy was dead. And, surprisingly, she had handed her own flesh and blood over to Sarah, for goodness’ sake! No lines drawn in the sand here. All decision-making had been delegated to Ivy’s ‘‘horrid little sister.’’ And to think, now Sarah would have preferred otherwise.

  She sat on the bed, testing its firmness. Perhaps God had answered her prayer, after all, making Ivy nicer . What lyricist wrote, ‘‘Only the good die young’’?

  A ridiculous commentary, she decided. Yet the memory of Ivy’s numerous letters—penned in rather amiable tones on occasion— came back to taunt her. Something had changed Ivy’s perspective on life. Something . . . Yet Sarah knew not what it could have been.

  The patter of feet on stairs awakened Sarah. She sat up in bed, disoriented for a moment, squinting at the murky room. Glancing at her clock radio, Sarah saw that it was only fourthirty. The middle of the night.

  What was happening in the house this early?

  She donned her robe, then opened the door leading to the hallway, cocked her head, and listened. More whispering and scurrying, followed by a rumbling sound.

  Unmistakably, the sound of an old washing machine drumbeat its way up the stairs to her ears. Recalling that the day was Monday, she wondered why neither Lydia nor Anna Mae had mentioned anything to her last night prior to their interminable evening prayers, through which she had suffered, remaining seated on the sofa while the children knelt.

  The clunking and thumping continued, and she wished now that she had allowed herself more time to wind down last evening, gone to sleep sooner. Due to frustration and her overactive mind, she’d had little more than four hours’ rest, if that.

  ‘‘I’m sorry, Aunt Sarah. We forgot to tell you we wash our clothes and hang them out every Monday morning long before dawn,’’ Lydia informed her when Sarah had located the origin of the laundry noise and activity—in the dank cellar. ‘‘It’s our way.’’

  Lydia, who seemed overly zealous about explaining, went on to say that after the clothes were hung out to dry, they still had many chores to do in the barn, ‘‘and we milk three cows twice a day.’’ The girl stopped to catch her breath. ‘‘Prob’ly doesn’t sound like much work to you, but we do it all by hand. Saves on machinery expense, and Dat always said it was gut for his children to keep their hands and minds busy.’’

  ‘‘Why must you get up so early to do laundry?’’ she asked, regarding her energetic niece through a haze of fatigue.

  Anna Mae flashed her green eyes. ‘‘It would never do for us to wait till the sun comes up to hang the clothes on the line.’’

  Sarah nodded, wondering. Since the family had indulged themselves with electricity, unlike other Plain sects, why in the world didn’t they own a clothes dryer? She attempted to remain tactful, however, and did not probe the reasoning behind whatever mandate this action represented. ‘‘Well, since I’m up, I might as well help.’’

  ‘‘Many hands make light work,’’ Lydia said softly, handing her a large homespun bag of clothespins. ‘‘Just make sure you hang similar things together on the line.’’ The girl motioned for Anna Mae to demonstrate. ‘‘It’s much more orderly to hang all the boys’ trousers in a row, and all the girls’ aprons, and so on.’’

  Sarah was dumbfounded. ‘‘You’re required to do this a specific way?’’

  ‘‘Ach, no! Nobody says we have to.’’ Lydia tossed the damp laundry into a heavy-duty wicker basket. ‘‘It’s just the way the People have been doin’ it for over three hundred years.’’

  ‘‘Does anyone ever think to change . . . or do things differently?’’ she ventured.

  Anna Mae piped up, ‘‘The folks who do usually end up leavin’ the community.’’ The younger girl pursed her lips as if sorry she’d spoken at all.

  ‘‘Old Order Amish shun those who’re itchin’ to change too much,’’ Lydia explained on the way outside.

  Sarah had only heard of shunning by way of Ivy’s letters. Her sister hadn’t explained much regarding the practice, but Sarah did remember—a couple of years back—that Ivy had mentioned several folks who were ‘‘under the ban’’ in another area of Lancaster County, as she recalled.

  More than anything, Lydia wanted to tell Aunt Sarah the story of the old Amishman who lived in the woods. But now wasn’t the time. There was much work to do, ’specially out here in the cold with her fingers turnin’ ever so numb. She wished she’d thought to wear M
amma’s old fur-lined gloves. Even though there was a rip between the thumb and pointer finger, they’d be much better than this bone-chilling cold.

  She looked over her shoulder, shocked, really, to see Aunt Sarah workin’ alongside Anne Mae in the sub-zero-degree weather. Seemed to her their fancy Oregon relative would’ve wanted to stay indoors and keep warm.

  ‘‘You really don’t have to stay and help,’’ she said again, feeling a little sorry for Aunt Sarah, who prob’ly wasn’t used to workin’ outside much. ‘‘Anna Mae and I do this every Monday mornin’—cold or not. I’m sure we could almost do it blindfolded.’’ ‘‘Jah, that’s the truth,’’ Anna Mae shot back.

  ‘‘Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll skip the blindfold,’’ Sarah added.

  Lydia was downright befuddled by this unexpected glimpse of humor but said nothing. Her mother’s sister was a hard one to figure.

  When will I meet Susie Lapp? Sarah wondered while Lydia and the other children milked the cows, doing whatever they did in that big barn. The sooner the better, she decided, determined to make a connection with a possible replacement for her services as guardian.

  She ran her bath water upstairs, sprinkling soothing salts into the rather small tub, telling herself she could put up with such inconveniences for a mere week. This being the only upstairs bathroom in the farmhouse, she was grateful that her sister and brother-in-law had purchased a home with indoor plumbing.

  It was one positive note in the otherwise primitive surroundings.

  Her bath was warm and pleasant, and the sweet fragrance of her own soap, which she had brought from home, offered a few moments of luxury.

  What inexplicable circumstances had brought her to this place? She cared not to relive the initial phone call from Lydia, the summons that had kicked off this extraordinary chain of events, nor her procrastination that followed.

  While brushing her damp hair later, Sarah enjoyed the feel of her thick and sumptuous terry cloth robe as never before. She plugged in her hair dryer and longed for the rest of the modern conveniences back home.

  Her cell phone rang, and she saw that it was Bryan Ford. He’s up early , she thought, smiling as she clicked the Talk button. ‘‘You must have meetings this morning,’’ she said into the small mouthpiece.

  ‘‘Well, hello to you, too,’’ he mocked. ‘‘I thought I’d try to catch you before you rushed out to milk the cows.’’

  She chuckled, actually glad to hear his voice. ‘‘The cows are being milked today without my assistance.’’

  ‘‘I understand.’’

  ‘‘I doubt it.’’

  ‘‘So . . . how’s life in Amish country?’’

  She wouldn’t go there, wouldn’t give him the blow-by-blow he was probably eager to hear. ‘‘You’re into computers, not journalism. Shall we keep it that way?’’

  ‘‘Okay, I’ll rephrase. How are you holding up, Sarah?’’

  ‘‘I’m fine.’’

  ‘‘And I’m Mahatma Gandhi.’’

  She sighed. ‘‘There’s running water in the house and electricity. What else do you want to know?’’

  ‘‘How’re you handling . . . everything?’’

  What he really wanted to know was how she was dealing with the children. She knew him too well. ‘‘My nieces and nephews are busy little bees. You’d like them, Bryan. They’re model children, straight out of the nineteenth century—no piercings or tattoos, no serious attitude problems, either.’’ Then she recalled Anna Mae’s momentary outburst, mild as it was. ‘‘Well, there may be one child who needs a shrink.’’

  ‘‘Tell me more.’’

  ‘‘Another time.’’ She heard commotion below. ‘‘I think I’d better get downstairs and help with breakfast.’’

  ‘‘When can I see you again?’’

  ‘‘Must you always ask?’’

  He laughed, obviously misunderstanding her comment. ‘‘So I can just show up . . . don’t need to make a date of it?’’

  ‘‘You know better than that.’’

  ‘‘I have an idea,’’ he said, his voice growing softer. ‘‘Why don’t you call me when you want to chat?’’

  ‘‘Deal.’’

  ‘‘Have fun on the farm.’’

  ‘‘Right.’’ She couldn’t help herself. She grinned at the cell phone, switching it off with a flair.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fretting over the lateness of the hour, Lydia tried to get Josiah to stop dawdling over his hot cocoa. Hannah was out in the utility room fussin’ about not being able to find her snow boots. Caleb had disappeared upstairs again for the third time—for something he said he needed for school. Anna Mae was the only calm sibling, sitting near the back door, arms crossed over her chest, like she was awful close to surrenderin’ her patience.

  ‘‘Ach, it’s just never like this, of a mornin’.’’ Lydia glanced at Aunt Sarah, who was busying herself with washing dishes.

  ‘‘With so many children to get ready, I’d expect it would be this way every morning.’’

  Lydia forced a smile. ‘‘They’re goin’ to be late if they don’t hurry, that’s for sure.’’

  Aunt Sarah stopped what she was doing, turned, and dried her hands on the towel hanging over the counter. ‘‘How can I help expedite things?’’

  Expedite?

  Lydia made sure she didn’t laugh at this peculiar English word. But she knew if her brothers and sisters didn’t leave in the next minute or two, they most certainly would be tardy. And tardiness was not tolerated at Amish schools. Lydia herself knew better than to foster or excuse any such slowpoke behavior in her siblings. Especially if she was to help oversee the household till Aunt Sarah caught on to what was needed.

  Truth was, if you were consistently late to school, you might also fall into the bad habit of bein’ tardy for most anything in life. Bishop Joseph and the elders knew it to be true. And often Preacher Esh’s sermons tolled the folly of such neglectful deportment.

  So it behooved them to heed the Scriptural warnings. Besides that, Dat used to quote Benjamin Franklin while sweeping out the barn or pitchin’ hay to the horses: ‘‘ ‘He that riseth late must trot all day, and shall scarce overtake his business at night.’ ’’

  Lydia knew the passage well, for she often took great pleasure in memorizing most everything her father said by way of special phrases and recitations. ’Specially from the time she finished up the eighth grade and began to stay at home with Mamma, helpin’ clean, cook, sew and mend, and raise a vegetable garden, among other things.

  ‘‘How can I help you get the children off to school?’’ Aunt Sarah said again.

  ‘‘You could see if Caleb’s comin’ down. Just call up the steps to him, why don’tcha? I’ll put a bee in Hannah’s bonnet and rouse Josiah away from the table.’’ She was surprised to see Aunt Sarah drop the towel and scurry off to the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘‘Look, Lyddie. My boots were right where I left ’em,’’ little Hannah was sayin’.

  ‘‘I’m not surprised at that.’’ She pulled Hannah’s warmest coat and scarf off the wooden pegs and handed them to her. ‘‘Kumm mit! ’’ she called.

  And the children came. Anna Mae led the way out the door, but not before the younger girl hugged Lydia good-bye. ‘‘Maybe Aunt Sarah will help ya bring in the clean wash later.’’

  ‘‘Don’t you worry none.’’

  Anna Mae’s eyes twinkled. ‘‘Aunt Sarah could use another lesson on hanging out the clothes, jah?’’

  Lydia shooed her off, grinning as she did.

  Hannah asked her to feel if the bump was ‘‘all gone.’’ Lydia found the spot on her little sister’s head. ‘‘Ach, it’s so much better. Now go!’’

  Soon all the children had hugged her and marched off into the white wonderland outside.

  ‘‘Do they ever cancel school for snow?’’ Aunt Sarah asked, peering out the window with Lydia.

  ‘‘Not that I remember. We don’t miss school for
nasty weather. You just watch. Somebody’ll come along with a horse and sleigh an’ pick up my brothers and sisters and take them off to school. That’s perty much the way it goes ’round Grasshopper Level.’’

  Aunt Sarah said nothing in reply.

  Lydia would’ve liked to know what her aunt was thinking. Just now, she would’ve given her far more than a penny for her thoughts.

  Arms loaded down with freshly ironed Sunday shirts and trousers for the boys, dresses and aprons for the girls, Lydia went depositin’ the clothes in the correct bedrooms upstairs.

  ‘‘Looks to me like you could use a breather,’’ Aunt Sarah said when Lydia came back downstairs. She was sitting in the kitchen, near the window, sipping her third cup of coffee.

  ‘‘Mamma always said, ‘A man works from sun to sun, a woman’s work is never done.’ It’s just the way things are.’’ She lifted her shoulders, spreading her hands. ‘‘The men work outside this time of year, removin’ the big stones out in the fields, and they go off to farm auctions and whatnot all, too. The women have the responsibility of the indoor chores—cooking, cleaning, washing clothes, and mending all year long—but just now it’s the season for quiltin’.’’

  Aunt Sarah’s eyes opened wide. ‘‘You mean you don’t quilt the entire year?’’

  ‘‘In the winter the farm families quilt, while the soil is restin’, ya know, waiting to be worked over, plowed, and planted again.

  Some of our womenfolk do run quiltin’ businesses in Strasburg or other places, so they must sew off and on all year.’’

  ‘‘I see.’’

  ‘‘More and more, though, the women are going out and settin’ up craft stores and whatnot. Some rent or lease a small space along the streets of Intercourse or Bird-in-Hand. Other folks just set up shop in a shed behind their houses.’’ She would’ve liked to, but she dared not sit down and sip tea or cocoa with Aunt Sarah. If she did she might not get up and get goin’ again. And there was work to be done.