Miriam's Heart (4 page)

Susanna was still watching her carefully. “Anna said to tell you to cut greens if you go in the garden and not to forget to meet Mam.”

The three stood there, looking at each other.

“Guess I should be going,” Charley finally said, awkwardly looking down at his feet.

“Thanks again for bringing the hay, Charley. I can always count on you.” Miriam dared a quick look into his eyes. “You’re like the brother I never had.”

“That’s me. Good old Charley.” He sounded upset with her and she had no idea why.

“Don’t be silly.” She tapped his shoulder playfully. “You’re a lifesaver. You kept me from drowning in the creek, didn’t you?”

“In the creek? Right, like
you
needed saving.” He laughed, and she laughed with him, easing the tension of the moment.

They walked out of the barn, side by side with Susanna trailing after them, and crossed the yard to the well. Charley drew up a bucket of water, and all three drank deeply from the dipper. Then he went back to the barn to guide the team and wagon down the passageway and out the far doors. By the time he’d turned his horses around and driven out of the yard, Miriam had almost stopped feeling as though she’d somehow let him down. Almost…

Later, in the buggy on the way to the orchard with her mother, Miriam had wanted to tell her about the strange moment in the hayloft with Charley. In a large family, even a loving one, time alone with parents was special. Miriam was a grown woman, but Mam had a way of listening without judging and giving sound advice without seeming to. Miriam valued her mother’s opinion more than anyone’s, even more than Ruth’s and the two of them were the closest among the sisters. But this afternoon, she didn’t want sisterly advice; she didn’t need any more of Ruth’s teasing about her friendship with John Hartman. Today, she needed her mother.

But before she could bring up Charley, she needed to find out what Ruth and Anna had been hinting about after breakfast, concerning Johanna. If Johanna had trouble, it certainly took priority over a silly little touch of a boy’s hand. She was just about to ask about her older sister when Mam gestured for her to pull over into the Amish graveyard and rein in the horse.

Sometimes, Mam came here to visit Dat’s grave, even though it wasn’t something that their faith encouraged. The graves were all neat and well cared for; that went without saying, but no one believed their loved ones were here. Those that had died in God’s grace abided with Him in heaven. Instead of mourning those who had lived out their earthly time, those left behind should be happy for them. But Mam—who’d been born and raised Mennonite—had her quirks and one of them was that she came here sometimes to talk to their father.

When Mam came to Dat’s grave, she usually came alone. This was different and Miriam gave her mother her full attention.

“You know we had a letter from Leah on Monday,” Mam said.

Miriam nodded. Her two younger sisters, Leah and Rebecca, had been in Ohio for over six months caring for their father’s mother and her sister, Aunt Jezebel.
Grossmama
had broken a hip falling down her cellar stairs a year ago, and although the bone had healed, her general health seemed to be getting worse. Aunt Ida, Dat’s sister, and her husband lived on the farm next to
Grossmama,
but her own constitution wasn’t the best, and she’d asked Mam for the loan of one of her girls. Mam had sent two, because neither
Grossmama
nor Aunt Jezebel, at their ages, could be expected to act as a proper chaperone for a young, unbaptized woman. No one, least of all Miriam, had expected the sisters to be away so long.

“What I didn’t tell you,” Mam continued, “was that this arrived on Tuesday from Rebecca.” She removed an envelope from her apron pocket. “You’d best read it yourself.”

Miriam slipped three lined sheets of paper out of the envelope and unfolded them. Rebecca’s handwriting was neat and bold. Her sister had wanted to follow their mother’s example and teach school. She’d gotten special permission from the bishop to continue her education by mail, but in spite of her sterling grades, no teaching positions in Amish schools had opened in Kent County.

Miriam skimmed over the opening and inquiries over Mam’s health to see what Mam was talking about. It wasn’t like her to keep secrets, and the fact that she hadn’t said anything about what was in the letter was out of the ordinary and disturbing.

As she read through the pages, Miriam quickly saw how serious the problem was. According to Rebecca, their grandmother had moved beyond forgetfulness and both sisters were concerned for her safety.
Grossmama
had never been an easy person to please, and Leah and Rebecca had been chosen to go because they were the best-suited to the job.

Dat had been their grandmother’s only son and she’d never approved of his choice of a bride. She’d made it clear from the beginning that she didn’t like Mam. Even as the years passed, she never missed an opportunity to find fault with her and her daughters. Miriam had always tried to remember her duty to her grandmother and to remain charitable when discussing her with her sisters, but the truth was, the prospect of
Grossmama
’s extended visit for Ruth’s marriage was something Miriam wasn’t looking forward to.

According to Rebecca’s letter,
Grossmama
had accidentally started fires in the kitchen twice. She’d taken to rising from her bed in the wee hours and wandering outside in her nightclothes, and was having unexplained bouts of temper, throwing objects at Leah and Rebecca and even at Aunt Jezebel.
Grossmama
had also begun to tell untruths about them to the neighbors. She refused to take her prescriptions because she was convinced that Aunt Jezebel was trying to poison her.

Miriam finished the letter and dropped it into her lap. “This is terrible,” she said. “What can we do?”

Mam’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I’ve been praying for an answer.”

Miriam closed her hand over her mother’s. “But why didn’t you tell us?”

“I’ve talked to your aunt Martha.”

“Aunt Martha?” If anyone could make a situation worse, it would be Dat’s sister. “And…”

“She is
Grossmama
’s daughter. I’m only a daughter-in-law,” Mam reminded her. “Anyway, Martha thinks that Rebecca may be exaggerating. She thinks we should go on as we are until they come here for the wedding.”

“While
Grossmama
burns down the house around my sisters?”

Mam laughed. “I hope it’s not that bad. As Rebecca says, she and Leah take turns keeping watch over her and they turn off the gas to the stove at night.”

“But why isn’t Aunt Martha or Aunt Ida or one of the other aunts doing something? She’s
their
mother!”

“And she was Jonas’s mother, my mother-in-law. God has blessed us, child. We’re better off financially than either of your aunts. Martha’s house is small and she’s already caring for Uncle Reuben’s cousin Roy. If your father was alive, he’d feel it was his duty to care for his mother. We can’t neglect that responsibility because he isn’t here, can we?”

“You mean
Grossmama
is coming to live with us?” Miriam couldn’t imagine such a thing. Her grandmother would destroy their peaceful home. She was demanding and so strict, she didn’t even want to see children playing on church Sundays. She objected to youth singings and frolics, and most of all, she couldn’t abide animals in the house. She would forbid Irwin to let Jeremiah through the kitchen door.

“Nothing is decided,” Mam said. “I spoke to Johanna on Tuesday evening. I meant to discuss it with the rest of you, but then you had the accident with the hay wagon and the time wasn’t right. I just wanted time alone to tell you about this.”

“Ruth doesn’t know?”

“We’ll share the letter with her when the time is right. She’s so excited about her wedding plans and the new house, I don’t want to spoil this special time for her. And Anna, well, you know how Anna is.”

“She’d look for the best in it,” Miriam conceded. “And she’d probably want to take a van out to Ohio tomorrow and make everything right for everyone.”

Her mother nodded. “You’re sensible, Miriam. And you have a good heart.”

“What do you need me to do, Mam?”

“For now? Pray. Think on this and look into your heart. If what Rebecca says is true, we may have to open our home to your grandmother. If we do, it must be all of us, with no hanging back. We have to do this together.”

“All right,” Miriam promised. Thoughts of Charley and the uncomfortable moment with him faded to the back of her mind. Her family—her mother—needed her. “But what shall we do right now?” she asked.

“Drive the horse to the orchard,” Mam said with a smile. “We’ll need those apples all the more with the wedding coming. We’ve got a lot of applesauce to make.”

“Grossmama
hates cinnamon in her applesauce.”

“Does she?” Mam’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “And I was just thinking we should stop at Byler’s store to buy extra.”

E
arly Saturday morning, two days after Miriam’s accident with the hay wagon, preparations began for Sunday church at Samuel Mast’s home. Anna, Ruth, Mam and Susanna joined Miriam and most of the other women of their congregation to make Samuel’s house ready for services and the communal meal that followed.

Since Samuel, the Yoders’ closest neighbor, was a widower, he had no wife to supervise the food preparation and cleaning. Neighbors and members of the community always came to assist the host before a church day and Samuel was never at a lack for help. It seemed to Miriam as if every eligible Amish woman in the county, or a woman with a daughter or sister of marrying age, turned out to bake, cook, scrub and sweep until Samuel’s rambling Victorian farmhouse shone like a new penny.

Miriam carried a bowl of potato salad in her right hand and one of coleslaw in her left as she crossed Samuel’s spacious kitchen to a stone-lined pantry beyond. Although the September day was warm, huge blocks of ice in soapstone sinks kept the windowless room cool enough to keep food fresh for the weekend. A large kerosene-driven refrigerator along one wall held a sliced turkey and two sliced hams, as well as a large tray of barbecued chicken legs. Pies and cakes, pickles, chowchows and jars of home-canned peaches weighed down shelves. The widower might not have been a great cook, but he never lacked for delicious food when it came to hosting church.

As Miriam exited the pantry, closing the heavy door carefully behind her, she nearly tripped over Anna, who was down on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen linoleum. At the sink, Ruth washed dishes and Johanna dried and put them away while Mam arranged a bouquet of autumn flowers on the oak table. “What can I do to help?” Miriam asked.

Anna dug another rag out of the scrub bucket, wrung it out and tossed it to her. Miriam caught the wet rag, frowning with exaggeration at her sister.

“You asked.” Anna grinned. She knew very well that Miriam’s strong point wasn’t housework, but she also knew that when it came down to it, her sister was a hard worker, no matter what the task.

Chuckling, Miriam got down to assist Anna in finishing the floor. Johanna, who had a good voice, began a hymn in High German, and Miriam, Anna and Ruth joined in. Miriam’s spirits lifted. Work always went faster with many hands and a light heart, and the words to the old song seemed to strike a chord deep inside her. It was strange how scrubbing dirty linoleum could make a person feel a part of God’s great plan.

Aunt Martha had taken over the downstairs living room and adjoining parlor, loudly directing her daughter Dorcas and several other young women in washing windows, polishing the wood floors and arranging chairs. But it didn’t take long for Johanna’s singing to spread through the house. Soon, Dorcas’s off-key soprano and Aunt Martha’s raspy tenor blended with the Yoder girls to make the walls ring with the joyful song of praise.

Samuel’s sister, Louise Stutzman, came down the steep kitchen staircase, leading Samuel’s daughter Mae, just as Johanna finished the chorus of their third hymn. The four-year-old was cranky, but Susanna, who’d come in the back door to find cookies, held out her arms and offered to take the little girl outside to play with the other small children.

“Gladly,” Louise said, ushering Mae in Susanna’s direction.

Susanna’s round face beamed beneath her white
kapp.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of her.”

“I know you will, Susanna. All the children love you.”

Susanna nodded. “You can bring baby Mae to our libary. Mam says I am the best li-barian there is.”

“Librarian,” Mam corrected gently.

Susanna took a breath, grinned and repeated the word correctly. “Li-brarian!”

“Mam had our old milk house made into a lending library for the neighborhood,” Anna explained. “Susanna helps people find books to take home. And she goes with Miriam to buy new ones that the children will like.”

Louise smiled at Susanna. “That sounds like an important job.”

“It is!” Susanna proclaimed. “You come and see. I’ll find you a good book.” Anna held the door open and Susanna carried a now-giggling Mae outside.

“Susanna has such a sweet spirit,” Louise said. “You’ve been blessed, Hannah.”

“I know,” Mam agreed. “She’s very special to us.”

Miriam liked Samuel’s older sister. She was a jolly person with a big smile and a good heart. She was always patient and kind to Susanna, never assuming that because of her Down syndrome, Susanna was less than safe to be trusted with Mae.

Louise had come from Ohio on Friday and brought Mae along for a visit with her father. When Samuel’s wife died after a long illness, baby Mae was only a few months old. None of Samuel’s family thought that he could manage an infant, since he already had the twins, Peter and Rudy, Naomi and Lori Ann to care for. Reluctantly, Samuel had agreed to let his sisters keep the baby temporarily, with the understanding that when he remarried, Mae would rejoin the family. Louise had offered to take Lori Ann as well, but Samuel wouldn’t part with her.

Everyone thought that Samuel would marry after his year of mourning was up. And considering that he was the father of five, no one would have objected if he’d taken a new wife sooner. But it had been four years since Frieda had passed on, and Samuel seemed no closer to bringing a new bride home than he’d been on the day he’d ridden in the funeral procession to the graveyard.

Samuel made visits to his family in Ohio to see little Mae, and his mother and sisters brought the child to Delaware whenever it was his turn to host church services. The shared time was never very satisfactory for father or daughter. Mae was a difficult child, and Samuel and her sisters and brothers were strangers to her. The neighborhood agreed that the sooner Samuel took a wife and brought his family back together, the better for all.

The problem, as Miriam saw it, was that Samuel hadn’t shown any real interest in any of the marriageable young women in the county or those his sisters paraded before him in Ohio. Samuel Mast was a catch. He was a devout member of the church, had a prosperous farm and a pleasant disposition. And, he was a nice-looking man, strong and healthy and full of fun. No one could understand why he’d waited so long to remarry.

Miriam and the Yoder girls thought they knew why, though.

Despite the difference in their ages—Samuel was eight years younger than Mam—it looked to Miriam and her sisters as if Samuel liked their mother. She and Ruth had discussed the issue many times, usually late at night, when they were in bed. They both thought Samuel was a wonderful neighbor and a good man, but not the right husband for Mam.

Hannah had been widowed two years and, by custom, she should have remarried. The trouble was, she wasn’t ready, and neither were her daughters. Dat had been special and Miriam couldn’t see another man, not even Samuel, sitting at the head of the table and taking charge of their lives. Not yet at least.

Among the Plain people, a wife was supposed to render obedience to her husband. Not that she didn’t have a strong role in the family or in the household; she did. But a woman had to be subservient first to God, and then, to her husband. Miriam couldn’t imagine Mam being subservient to anyone.

Growing up, Miriam had never heard her parents argue. It seemed that Mam had always agreed with every decision Dat ever made, but as Miriam grew older she realized that, in reality, it was often Dat who’d listened to Mam’s advice, especially where their children were concerned. In that way, Mam was different.

Mam had been born a Mennonite and had been baptized into the Amish church before they were married. Miriam sometimes wondered if that was what made her mother so strong-willed and independent. Would another man, even a man as good-natured and as sweet as Samuel, be able to accept Mam’s free spirit? Certainly, he’d ask her to give up teaching school. Married women didn’t work outside the home.

If they married, would Samuel expect Mam to move into his house? What would happen to Dat’s farm? To the Yoder girls, including herself? And what about Irwin? His closest relatives were Norman and Lydia Beachy; he’d lived with them when he first came to Seven Poplars, but that hadn’t worked out well. That was why Irwin now lived with Miriam’s family. If Mam and Samuel were to marry, would Samuel want to send Irwin back to the Beachy farm?

Mam and Miriam and her sisters had made out fine in the two years since Dat’s death. It hadn’t been easy, but they managed. There were a lot of ways a stepfather could disrupt the Yoder household, and thinking about it made Miriam uneasy. Ruth leaving to marry Eli was enough change for one year. Wasn’t it?

“Whoa,” Anna said. “That section of the floor is already done.”

Miriam looked up. As usual, she’d been so deep in her thoughts that she’d forgotten to pay attention to what she was doing. “Oops.”

Anna laughed. “Go on. You’ve been inside too long. Find something outside to do.”

“You certain you don’t mind?” Miriam asked.

“Scrub the back porch, if you want,” Louise suggested. “It doesn’t look as though Samuel has thought of that in a while.” She pointed to the screen door. “There’s another bucket by the pump.”

“Go. Go,” Anna urged. “Any more women in here and we’ll be tripping over each other.”

Miriam went out, found a broom and proceeded to sweep the sand off the porch. She hadn’t been at it more than two minutes when Charley shouted to her from the barnyard. “Morning, Miriam.”

“Morning, Charley.”

He was raking the barnyard clean of horse droppings, and she assumed that he’d come with the other men to make the farmyard and barn ready for Sunday’s gathering. If there was work to be done, you could always count on Charley to be there.

He’d leaned his rake against the barn and started toward the porch, when Miriam heard the sound of a truck engine. As she watched, John pulled up in his truck, with
Hartman Veterinary Services
printed on the side.

“Who’s that?” Anna asked as she pushed open the screen door.

“John.” Miriam’s heart beat faster and she felt a little thrill of excitement. What was he doing here?

Anna snickered. “He was at our house before eight this morning. Is he going to follow you everywhere?”

John blew the horn and waved.

Miriam felt her cheeks grow hot, but she waved back.

“Who is it?” Louise stepped out on the porch behind Anna. “Oh, the vet. Samuel told me that he’d asked him to come. One of his best milkers has a swollen bag. He didn’t want it to get worse.” She glanced at Anna. “You say he was at your house this morning?”

“He’s sweet on Miriam,” Anna explained.

Miriam could hear her sister’s smile, even if she couldn’t see it. “He is not,” Miriam protested, sweeping harder. “He came to check on one of our horses. She’s developing a hoof infection. John’s watching it.”

Anna giggled. “More like he’s watching you.”

“The English vet?” Louise frowned. “Not good.” She waggled a finger. “You shouldn’t encourage him.”

“I’m
not
encouraging him,” Miriam said. “We’re friends, nothing more.”

“He’s not English,” Anna supplied. “He’s Mennonite.”

“Ach.” Louise shook her head. “Worse, even. You know what they say about those Mennonite boys. Wild, they are.”

“Miriam,” Mam called from inside the house. “Can you give me a hand with this?”

As she turned to make her escape into the kitchen, Miriam saw Charley walk toward John’s truck and lean in the open window. She would have given her best pair of muck boots to hear what those two were saying to each other.

Miriam’s eyelids grew heavy. When they drifted shut, Anna poked her hard in the ribs. Miriam gasped, straightened and sat upright. Then she glanced around to see if anyone else had caught her dozing off. Luckily, no one seemed to be watching her.

She was seated on a long backless bench with the other single girls on the women’s side of Samuel’s parlor. Wide pocket doors allowed a good view of the living room with its chairs for the older members, the bishop and preachers, and guests.

Uncle Reuben was still speaking. The hands on the tall case clock against the staircase read 12:45 p.m. The Sunday service should have been over half an hour ago, and there was still a prayer, the benediction and a final hymn to go. The wooden bench under Miriam was getting harder and harder, and she wiggled to find a more comfortable spot.

Despite the open windows and the breeze, it was warm in the room. She could see Susanna, sitting next to their mother, with her head on Mam’s shoulder. Her little sister’s face was perspiring and Mam was fanning her. Miriam was warm, too, but not uncomfortably so. It was something else that made her uneasy. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She felt as though someone was watching her, but again, when she scanned the two rooms, she saw no one staring in her direction.

Miriam tried to concentrate on her uncle’s sermon. He’d been talking about Noah and the hardships of spending so many weeks on the ark during the constant rainfall, but he’d moved on to Jonah and the similarities between the faiths of the two men. Uncle Reuben was known for his long rambling sermons, especially when there were important visitors. She didn’t think it was
hochmut
or pride on his part that made him go on so, as much as wanting to put the church in a good light.

She wished he’d get back to Noah’s story. Hearing Uncle Reuben tell about Noah gathering the animals had brought back the excitement of the movie Eli had taken her to at the Dover Mall a few months back. She could see the bears and the giraffes and the monkeys, in her mind’s eye, climbing the ramp to the ark, two by two, obedient to God’s word.

Miriam tried to listen to what her uncle was saying about Jonah, but she still had that feeling that— Charley! Her gazed suddenly settled on him.

He was standing between the main room and the kitchen with a group of his chums, young men who’d come in too late from the barn to be seated, and he was grinning at her. From across two rooms, Miriam could tell that he had been staring at her and that he had seen her falling asleep during Uncle Reuben’s sermon. When they made eye contact, he shook his head ever so slightly, obviously admonishing her, that silly grin still on his face. Worse, the other boys had apparently caught her as well. She could tell by the looks on their faces. They were all struggling not to laugh out loud and cause a scene.