Sisters of the Quilt

by Cindy Woodsmall

  Surely his sister understood what he was unable to speak of freely. If he could get Mary to see how stable his future was and if she cared for him as he hoped, they would become promised to each other by the night’s end.

  Hannah, seeing the mistake with the buttonhole, held her hand out for the shirt. “If you want to walk the property with Mary, just do so.”

  He passed her the shirt, holding on to part of it to help keep her attention. He boldly stared into her eyes.

  Hannah released the shirt, leaving it dangling from Luke’s hand to the floor. Her head lowered as if she were too weary to continue holding it up. “I … I … can’t.”

  Disappointment formed a knot in Luke’s chest. He dropped the shirt on the floor and grabbed his suspenders, squeezing them tight. “Your company for the night doesn’t have to include a guy from the singing. It can be just us three.”

  Hannah didn’t answer. She left the shirt on the floor and began sewing on the trousers again, ignoring Luke altogether.

  If he told their father about Hannah’s disinterest in being courted by any Amish men, Daed would set her straight quick. A rumschpringe was for finding an Amish mate, nothing else. Luke had plenty of suspicions about why Hannah found such great joy in working for the elderly woman down the road. But he hadn’t shared his thoughts with their father. Daed had a strong opinion about his kids not turning to the Mennonite ways.

  Luke hoped his sister’s desire to spend time at the Waddell place had nothing to do with any of the English farm hands or Mrs. Waddell’s grandson, whatever his name was. The grandson was from a very conservative Mennonite family but they weren’t in fellowship with the Old Order Amish. “Daed still doesn’t know that Mary and I have been bringing you home from the singings.”

  A look of defiance came over her face. She lifted her hand, showing an inch of space between her index finger and her thumb. “I have about this much freedom under our bishop, and only because it’s my time of rumschpringe. Singings and buggy courting are a private thing. Don’t take that away from me, Luke.”

  “But, Hannah, you ain’t using your freedom to find a mate. You’re just pretending to. It’s not right.”

  Her eyes grew cold and hard. “It’d be best not to talk to me of what’s right. Not now. Maybe not ever.” She turned away from him and pressed the pedal on the old Singer.

  Laying the trousers aside, Hannah rose from the stool and crossed to the far window. She watched Luke amble toward the barn to hitch the horse to the buggy. He and Mary would fritter the night away, laughing and having their mock arguments. Not long ago the three of them had delighted in playing board games and strolling in the cool of the evening. Now all she felt was indifference and bitterness. Where had her love for life and for her family gone?

  Her dear friend Mary always listened whenever Hannah was chafing against the strict conformity demanded among the People. But even with Mary, Hannah didn’t share too much. If Mary’s parents knew Hannah questioned the authority of the bishop, preachers, and even the Ordnung, they’d never let Mary see her.

  But those irritations didn’t compare to the resentment and vengeance that warred in her soul of late. What seemed like years ago she used to dream of Mary and Luke remaining close to her even if she didn’t join the faith. Now nothing seemed possible. Hannah no longer shared kindred thoughts with anyone—Luke, Mary, or even herself. Paul had loved her energy and sense of humor, but she didn’t possess that now. She’d become an empty kerosene lamp, the outward part of no use without its fuel.

  Yet, in spite of every gloomy thought moving within her, she felt a lingering trace of optimism that when she heard from Paul, her once-hopeful soul would return, and life would again have purpose. The haunting question of why Paul hadn’t written made a shudder run through her body.

  For several nights now, her father had been pacing the floors hours before the four o’clock milking. And she knew why. He still hadn’t decided whether to tell the bishop what had happened to his daughter. If he did, all power to have final say over her life would be removed from him. If the bishop chose to tell certain ones in the community about the incident, the news would eventually get back to Paul since he had distant cousins who lived in Owl’s Perch.

  Glancing at the shiny, gold-trimmed clock, Hannah took a deep, miserable breath. Paul had promised to send her a letter within two days after he left. Although she couldn’t manage to keep track of the days, Mamm had told her it had been more than three weeks since that day on the road.

  Sarah had ridden the mile to Mrs. Waddell’s with their brother Levi. Surely Sarah would bring a letter for her today. Hannah had spent quite a bit of time patiently reasoning with Sarah to convince her to bring home any letters without telling Mamm or Daed. Her sister had finally agreed.

  Hannah sighed and shuffled to the machine. Bending to grab the shirt off the floor, she spotted several folded papers sticking out from between the bottom of the dresser and the last drawer—as if someone had hidden them under a drawer and they had worked their way out. A closer look said it was probably a letter. Without hesitation, she eased the papers out of their half-hidden spot.

  Paul sat in his apartment with his open books spread across the small desk as he studied for another psychology test. The place was quiet since his roommates were all out enjoying the evening with a group of girls. The alarm on his watch sent out an elf-sized rendition of reveille. He pushed a button, silencing the tinny music. It was four o’clock and finally past all chance that his grandmother was still down for a nap. Now he could call her. Of course his true goal was to speak with Hannah.

  If they could instant message each other, e-mail, or talk on the phone, their separation would be much easier to deal with. Conversing only through letters in this day and age felt like trying to send for help by carrier pigeon. His chance of catching Hannah was minimal since her scheduled time at Gram’s was a bit irregular, shifting as the needs of the Lapp household altered. But it was worth trying, repeatedly.

  He picked up the cordless and punched in Gram’s number.

  The phone was on its tenth ring when the slow, rustling noise told him his grandmother had picked up.

  “Hi, Gram. It’s Paul. How are you feeling today?”

  They spoke of the weather, her aching joints, and how often she’d walked to the pond to feed the fish. Paul had to ease into the subject of Hannah, or his gram might get defensive. In the past she’d minced no words explaining her feelings about him and Hannah. She wavered between accepting the ever-growing friendship between her Mennonite grandson and her favorite Amish girl and detesting the heartache that lay ahead for both of them—whether the relationship lasted or not.

  “Gram, I haven’t gotten any letters from you.”

  “More to the point, no letters from Hannah.” Her tone sounded cheerful. That was good. “Sarah’s been comin’ here in her stead. I’d like to say she’s been doing Hannah’s job, but that’d be a lie.”

  That piece of news bothered him. He hoped his extra time with Hannah the day he left hadn’t caused her to get into trouble. Then again, whenever life became hectic at the Lapp household, they kept Hannah at home and sent Sarah in her place.

  “I can let you talk to Sarah next time she comes,” Gram said with a bit of mischief in her voice.

  Paul chuckled. This was the grandmother he’d known growing up—before the aches and pains of old age made her irritable with life and everyone around her. “You offer that every time the Lapps send her. Why can’t you do that when Hannah’s there?”

  “Because ya need no encouragement when it comes to her.” Silence filled the line for a moment. “Paul, are ya sure you’re doing the right thing … for Hannah’s sake?”

  The concern in her voice echoed his own anxiety. But his grandmother had no idea how far he’d let his feelings for Hannah take him. She only knew they cared for each other. There was no way she could miss that.

  “She’s of courting age, Paul. She needs to be going out
with her own kind. Is she doing that? Or is she waiting for you?”

  Jealousy and guilt nibbled at his conscience. He couldn’t bear to think of her seeing anyone else. That was why he had asked her to marry him before he left—that and his concern that she might join the church this spring if he didn’t give her another option.

  “Paul.” His grandmother’s firm tone brought his thoughts up short.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  The line fell silent again. He had no desire to try to answer her question. Fact was, he had no answer that she’d care to hear.

  “There’s no sense in you looking for letters from Hannah or sending any here for her, not for a while. Sarah says it’ll be weeks before Hannah returns. In the meantime, you’d better think this through. Let this space clear your thoughts.” She worded it as a suggestion, but her tone made it more of an order, one he’d better follow if he didn’t want the wrong people to learn of this relationship.

  “Were you able to give her the letter I sent?”

  “I haven’t received any mail from you since you left for school last.”

  “You must have. I sent a manila envelope with a letter to you and a thick white envelope inside it for Hannah.”

  “I’d remember a letter from you, Paul, and it ain’t arrived. Just as well. I think it’s best if you two stop conversing for a spell. I let things get out of hand over the summer.”

  Keeping his voice respectful, Paul said, “I’m not a child, Gram.”

  “No, you ain’t. But she is.”

  “You and Grandpa were eighteen when you married.”

  “Our parents approved of us seeing each other from the get-go. If Hannah’s father weren’t so stubborn about his kids remainin’ Amish and staying in his district …” Gram paused.

  Paul wondered why Gram, who had nothing to do with the Amish community aside from Hannah working for her, seemed to think she knew how Zeb Lapp felt. “But—”

  “But,” Gram interrupted. “But Hannah’s father will not spare the rod on her if he gets wind of this, and you know it. Now, no more talk. You’d best spend your time looking at the realistic aspects of this relationship instead of letter writin’ and callin’ and such.”

  Paul’s temper threatened to get the best of him. “I need to go, Gram. I’ll call you in a few days.” He hung up the phone.

  Irritation pulsed through him. Still, Gram had made some good points. Hannah was young. But she was mature enough to make lifelong decisions.

  Wasn’t she?

  He glanced at the psychology books spread out over the desk. He was torn between his desperation to make a connection with Hannah and the nagging feeling that maybe his grandmother was right.

  But where was the letter he’d written, the one in which he’d shared openly about his love for her? If a letter from him never arrived, what would she think of his commitment to her?

  He could try to circumvent his grandmother’s wishes and drive to Owl’s Perch to see Hannah. But that could prove detrimental to their future relationship and get Hannah in a lot of trouble.

  Paul’s only option was to give his grandmother time to change her mind about allowing Hannah and him to communicate through her address.

  Her heart pounding, Hannah unfolded the letter. The top page had a watercolor painting of a sunset on a beach. She shifted to the second page, where large handwriting in the salutation said, “Dearest One.” Refusing to give in to defeat just yet, she flipped to the last page. It was another beach scene but from a bird’s-eye view. She flipped back to the second page to find the closing: “With all my love, Zabeth.”

  Disappointment drained what little strength Hannah had. She sat on the side of the bed, holding the letter in her lap. Her momentary hope that Paul had written to her and that somehow, through the mystical way of love, the letter had found its way to her was gone. It was a childish dream, without merit or good sense. As she adjusted to the fresh setback, a new thought worked its way to the front of her mind: who was Zabeth, and was that even an Amish name?

  If it was, she’d never heard of it. Dozens of questions floated through her mind. She wondered who “Dearest One” was, why the letter had been stuffed under a drawer, and if the written words might hold any clues as to why she hadn’t heard from Paul. As she sat there, the questions grew and so did a desire for answers.

  Rising, Hannah hid the letter behind her. After bolting the door, she returned to the bed and unfolded the letter.

  Dearest One,

  It has been too long since we’ve seen, spoken to, or written to each other. I pray you will set aside your shame of me and find it within yourself to return a letter.

  When we were but youth, I made my choices and you made yours. Now we are fast approaching old age, and I need no one’s judgment—every day of my life I’ve paid the price for my decisions. But surely, as I deal with this horrid illness, our separation need not go any further.

  I’m your twin. We shared our mother’s womb. And once we shared a love so deep we could each feel what the other one felt before any words were spoken. Perhaps the need to break that connection is why you moved away from Ohio and joined the Amish in Pennsylvania.

  The shunning of the past two and a half decades has been bitter. When it is my time to die, I do not wish to leave you behind with acrimony in your heart against me.

  With all my love,

  Zabeth

  Like hornets buzzing in panic during late fall, Hannah’s thoughts zipped around furiously without landing anywhere.

  Who is “Dearest One”?

  She flipped to the backside of each page, looking for a clue. There was none, not even a date anywhere on the letter, so it could be really old, although it didn’t appear to be.

  She glanced back to the closing of the letter. Zabeth sounded like a woman’s name. Skimming the note for any hints of whom it was to, Hannah paused at the word Ohio. Her father had a few distant relatives in Ohio, but he didn’t have a sister. Most of his brothers lived outside Lancaster, where his parents were buried.

  She’d been told her grandparents Daadi John and Mammi Martha had moved to Lancaster several generations ago. So whoever Zabeth was, she—or he—had probably been a sibling to one of Hannah’s grandparents.

  In spite of her disappointment, the few moments of reading the letter had given Hannah’s raging emotions a welcome distraction. But her attention wasn’t drawn away for long, especially over something that went back to her grandparents’ youth.

  Deciding that the letter was none of her business and not of interest anyway, she put it back where she’d gotten it—careful to hide it better this time. But one nagging thought kept coming at her as she headed for bed. Would she one day send a letter begging her siblings to write to her?

  Luke positioned the harness over the gentle mare’s muzzle, then slid the bit into her mouth before placing the bridle around her head. He connected metal fasteners, leather straps, and leads from the horse to the courting buggy. Blue skies and wispy clouds filled the late-September sky. It was perfect weather for an outing. Since there’d been church last Sunday, no services would be held tomorrow.

  As he hooked the shafts from the buggy to the mare, he wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. He’d been courting Mary Yoder for nearly five months. Tonight, after the singing, he was going to ask her to marry him. He hoped she was willing to do all that it would take for them to wed.

  He threw the leather straps across the horse’s backside and pulled its tail through the loose restraints. He remembered the first time he had worked up the nerve to ask Mary if he could take her home after one of the singings. He’d spent hours that day polishing his buggy to a shine and grooming the mare in preparation. He grinned as he looked at the buggy and horse he’d readied for tonight. He didn’t feel any less nervous now than he had then.

  In spite of Hannah’s attitude about the singings, he thought the ritual was a good setup. All those of courting age wit
hin the community gathered in a barn and sang a cappella for hours. One or two of the older singles would start the hymn at a faster pace than used during church times. And even though the bishop and some of the parents were always there, plenty of laughter and quick-witted humor rang out during the singings. Sometimes words were altered to make the serious lyrics come to life with youthful glee. As long as the songs stayed respectful, the bishop allowed it.

  Young people could get to know each other better during a ride or two home, without anyone committing to a relationship. If they weren’t compatible, no one’s feelings got hurt. The man didn’t have to take a girl home again if he didn’t want to. The girls never had to accept a ride from anyone.

  This was one area that parents didn’t get involved in, not even with a suggestion. The bishop saw to that. He said God was responsible for putting young people together, not man.

  In his years of going to singings, Luke had taken several girls home. But Mary was the only one he’d ever truly courted, the only one he made a point of seeing at times other than during a ride home from the gathering. Now they ducked her parents’ eyes and went out every chance they got.

  Her decision to marry him would mean she was ready to give up her time of extra freedoms and submit to the Ordnung, the written and unwritten rules of the People. Luke never doubted that she would give up those things. He just wasn’t confident she was ready to do so now. If they planned to marry next fall, Mary would have to start going through instruction by springtime.

  He’d chosen to be baptized into the church a year and a half ago. According to the Ordnung, he could only marry a baptized member.