An Amish Kitchen, page 6
Mary was picking up crayons around the corner, and Abram had just about reached her with his scrub brush when he caught sight of a small black creature peering at him from between the little girl’s shoes. He closed his eyes for a second, telling himself he was imagining the appearance of Moldy, when Mary saw the apparition too. She screamed and teetered backward, sending the mole running and upsetting the scrub bucket.
He rose with Mary in his arms. “Luke, we’ve sighted your mole.”
“Let’s mousetrap him,” Mark said with gusto.
Luke started to wail, which tipped John off as well. “No traps! You’ll hurt him,” Luke cried.
Abram gave Mark a quelling glance as he rocked Mary to and fro. “Nee, no mousetraps. But maybe a safe trap.” He could barely hear his own voice over the noise of the two boys, and his head began to throb—definitely not a gut way to begin the process of dating.
“I’m not going to go today, Fern.”
“What?” Fern looked up from packing her Bible in a hand-sewn bag.
Mammi Zook relaxed back into a bentwood rocker in the sitting room adjacent to the kitchen. “I said I’m not going. Think I’ll have a bit of a nap instead. You’d best hurry on; you’ll be late.”
Fern went to her grandmother’s side and placed a hand on the old woman’s forehead. “Are you ill?”
“Nee, Fern. Run along with you.”
Fern bent to kiss the wrinkled, rose petal–soft cheek. “All right. I won’t be long. You rest.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
OUR DAILY BREAD HAD BEEN AN AMISH STORE SINCE THE 1950s. Owned and operated by the Lapp family, it was untouched by the tourist trade, being a discreet distance from any main road. The Amish in Paradise liked to joke that it was their Walmart, selling everything from farmware to household goods and fabric. Ann Lapp had continued the tradition set by her husband’s grandmother, that on Saturdays at two o’clock local women would gather in the store’s upstairs storage room to meet for a time of fellowship and prayer. It was a peaceful highlight of Fern’s week and provided a chance to catch up with women she might not otherwise see.
She entered the store to the good-natured greetings of various men, who liked to gather downstairs for their own time of talk, and made her way through the good-smelling place to the back stairs. She could hear the drift of feminine voices as she climbed and soon arrived at the upper room. Hiram Lapp always made sure that there were folding wooden chairs set up in a circle and plenty of tables for food.
Fern unwrapped her gingerbread and smiled as Eve Bender and Hannah King came over to greet her. Both women were good friends; Eve was a bit older than Hannah and Fern, but her beautiful face belied her age.
“Mm, gingerbread from Esther Zook’s recipe.” Hannah laughed. “I can’t wait.”
“Where is your mammi?” Eve asked.
Fern pushed away the worry she felt at the question. “Ach, she decided to stay home and have a bit of a rest.”
“Is she well?” Hannah put a concerned hand on Fern’s arm.
“She says so, but I don’t know. I’m trying to convince her to go see Dr. Knepp sometime soon. So, what did you ladies bring?”
Fern was soon absorbed in the general time of talk and catching up before Ann Lapp called for everyone’s attention and they all sat down to share prayer requests and concerns as well as items for praise. Fern was wishing that she could somehow share how she felt about Abram Fisher, but the thought made her embarrassed. She decided to continue to pray about the man alone.
After a hurried, hushed conversation with Hiram Lapp, Abram made his way as fast as he could through Our Daily Bread. He climbed the stairs and sought through the circle of bowed, kapped heads for Fern. Thankfully she was sitting nearby, in front of a flour barrel, and he sidled up to it to tap her gently on the shoulder.
“Fern,” he whispered. “Please come with me.”
She opened her eyes wide with surprise, then made to shoo him away, but he caught her hand in a tender grip. “Now, please.”
She rose, and he heard the telltale rustle of listeners as she went with him, but he didn’t have time to worry about it. He led her downstairs and through a surprisingly silent store, then out to the wagon full of quiet kinner.
“Abram Fisher, what is going on?” She glared up at him in the sunlight, and he bowed his head, dropping her hand.
“Fern, I went to your home a bit ago. Your grandmother . . . I thought she was sleeping, but she’d passed away. I’m sorry.”
He watched disbelief become replaced with a calm practicality on Fern’s pretty face. “We’ve got to go for Dr. Knepp,” she said, her voice quiet and detached.
“Fern, I stopped there on my way. He’s gone for the day. Anyway . . . I’m sure. She wasn’t breathing.”
“Take me to her, sei se gut.”
Fern entered her home quietly while Abram and the children waited outside in the wagon. She tiptoed across the floor to where her grandmother sat in the rocker, her eyes closed and a peaceful expression on her face. Fern automatically did the things that she knew should be done—checking for a pulse and respirations, looking at the arms for signs of mottling. Finally she dropped to her knees beside the chair to lay her head gently in the dear lap, knowing she was truly gone.
She sat for a long moment, blaming herself for not taking her grandmother to the doctor sooner. And yet she remembered the rose tea, the secret of the rose tea . . . Could her grandmother have known even then that this time was close?
A soft knock sounded on the door, and she looked up. She could see the stocky, balding figure of Bishop Smucker through the screen door.
“May I kumme in, child?”
Fern rose and swiped at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. News of a death spread fast in the community; someone from the store must have told the steadfast leader.
She opened the door to the kind, elderly man and he entered, placing a bracing hand on her shoulder as he glanced at her grandmother.
“As the Lord wills, Fern. Ya?”
Fern nodded, knowing it to be true.
“I sent young Abram home with his bunch of kinner, and I stopped at the phone shed to notify Dean Westler. He’ll be here later this afternoon, once the women have come and helped tend to things.”
Fern looked away. Dean was an Englischer and the only ausleger the Amish of her community had used for longer than she could remember. He was familiar with the Amish customs and was a quiet, gentle man. Fern had seen him attend to many a preparation; she just hadn’t expected to need his services so soon, despite her grandmother’s age.
Soon Esther Zook’s closest women friends began to arrive. Eve Bender caught Fern close in a tearful hug, and Fern was relieved at the strength of her friend’s shoulder.
“Everything will be all right,” Eve whispered.
Fern smiled through her tears, then turned away as a group of women carried her grandmother into the bedroom, where Fern knew they would bathe the body and dress it in white before the undertaker arrived. The body would then be embalmed for two viewings, the funeral service and then the final viewing at the burial. It seemed like an arduous amount of emotional strain to climb through, but Fern remembered the gentle conversation she’d had with her grandmother the previous night and felt some comfort.
She accepted a cup of herbal tea from Hannah King and took a place in the rocker where her grandmother had sat. It was her job now to greet and mourn with others of the community, who came bearing words of comfort and good food.
Hannah pulled a kitchen chair close to Fern and spoke softly. “They said it was Abram Fisher who came and got you—I didn’t see.”
Fern dipped her head from her friend’s gaze. She knew Hannah wasn’t being nosy; the two had often discussed their similar desires for husbands to appear in Paradise.
“Ya. It was Abram, but I think the bishop sent him home.”
“Too bad. He would be gut comfort, I bet.”
“Ach, Hannah, I don’t know. We—we had been . . . talking. But then . . .”
The other girl reached to pat her hand. “No explanations needed. Just don’t shut him out if you can help it. Remember, some of your plants must surely be more stubborn to grow than others.”
Fern couldn’t help but smile despite her sadness.
Abram rubbed the back of his neck. He was worn out with explaining to the kids about Esther Zook’s death. Mary was afraid that Mamm and Daed might die in Ohio, and she got John worrying too. Even Mark seemed pensive, while Luke occupied himself with a last look under the beds for Moldy. When everyone but Matthew was finally asleep, Abram went into the boy’s room and sat down on the edge of his bed.
“What are you reading?” Abram asked.
“An Englisch book—I know Mamm might have a fit. But it’s Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein.”
Abram smiled. “A monster tale, then?”
“Ya, but it’s more than that. It makes you think about things—like what happened to Esther Zook today. I mean, I know that it will happen to all of us sooner or later; I just don’t think I’m ready.”
Abram cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. “You don’t have to be ready tonight. I guess that when that time comes, Gott prepares the person somehow. I mean, some sort of clue maybe, so that the person can maybe help others around them get ready so they won’t hurt as badly.”
“Are you going to see her?” Matthew pushed his glasses up on his nose and stared at his big brother.
Abram had to laugh. “Ya, if you’ll keep a watchful ear for any mole problems or the like.”
“I will,” the boy promised solemnly.
“Danki, Matthew. Enjoy your book.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FERN LOOKED OUT OF THE WINDOW AT THE SOUND OF someone turning into the drive. She thought it might have been the undertaker’s hearse returning the body, but it was an Amish buggy that drew rein in the light of the lanterns burning on the front porch. Although tradition normally would not have left Fern alone in the empty house, she had insisted, knowing that she wouldn’t be alone for long. Her grandmother’s sister, Rose, had sent word that she would be coming to take up the reins of the household until after the funeral.
Fern went out onto the porch and watched the woman’s progress from the buggy with a grim beating of her heart. Rose was the antithesis of her name, and was probably ninety if she was a day.
“Fern Zook. So Esther’s gained her rest, hmm? Tell Billy he can go on back home.” Aenti Rose gestured with her gnarled cane to the morose-looking young man driving the buggy.
Fern felt a rush of sympathy for Cousin Billy. “Wouldn’t a cup of tea be nice—”
“Nee.” Aenti Rose mounted the steps and tilted her gray head, staring up at Fern with eyes as dark as agate.
Fern watched Billy turn the buggy with a feeling of despair, then reminded herself that it would only be for a few days. “Won’t you come in?”
“You’re here alone? Take my bag, for goodness’ sake.”
Fern took the heavy black bag and followed Rose into the house as the woman made a disdainful perusal of the cozy home.
“Hmm . . . Esther and her herbs. I suppose she taught you everything she knew?”
“I can only hope so,” Fern said demurely, leading her aenti to the large bedroom. She was loath to see her grandmother’s sanctuary marred by the attitude of her older sister, but Mammi had no use nor need for earthly comforts now.
“Considering the hour, I will retire now. I expect breakfast to be served at five o’clock. I am too old to bother with cookery. I like a coddled egg.”
You are a coddled egg. Fern bit her lip at the irreverent thought and nodded.
“And gracious, let Alexander out of the bag!”
Fern looked down at the bag she held and realized with something of a shock that it was moving. She cautiously opened the top and a black streak of cat leapt up at her face, then dived to the floor to encircle Aenti Rose’s skirt with a loud purr.
“Mm . . . isn’t he a pretty one?” Rose crooned. “Now, back to breakfast. I also will take—”
She was interrupted by a soft knock at the front screen door.
Fern crossed the room, knowing it was a bit late for callers, but grateful for any diversion from her disagreeable relative and her cat. She pushed open the door and saw Abram Fisher, his hat in his hands.
“Fern . . . I’m sorry for the lateness of the hour. The kids took awhile to get to bed.”
“Exactly who are you?” Aenti Rose questioned.
Fern had forgotten everything, even her anger toward the man, when she looked up into his anxious and beautiful face. Now she spun round to her aunt with a frown.
“Aenti Rose, you must know the Fishers next door. This is their eldest son, Abram.”
The old woman sniffed. “I meant, who is he to you?”
Fern drew a calming breath. “He found Mammi and came to tell me, and brought me home. I am . . . most grateful.”
“Well then, don’t leave him to catch a summer chill. Come in, Abram Fisher. You must meet my cat.”
Abram didn’t move from his seat at the kitchen table when the cat slowly climbed from his lap to balance on his shoulder.
Aenti Rose gave a delighted, slightly toothless smile, which made the wrinkles in her face look like deep ravines. “Ach, smart buwe to recognize a fine place to perch. Nothing like the broadness of a man’s shoulder, eh, Fern?”
Abram didn’t look at Fern, knowing the older relative for what she was. Everyone had an Aenti Rose in their family, it seemed to him. He’d had an Aenti Josephine who had made him want to crawl under the table at times with her odd remarks. As for the cat . . . the thing probably smelled the mole. He cleared his throat.
“Is there anything that I can do for you, that you might need?” He was pleased to see a flush color Fern’s pretty cheeks. She might be grieving, but she still felt alive, and he thought that took a lot of internal strength.
“We’re fine,” Aenti Rose asserted. “At least I am. This girl will probably moon about for a few days, but the Lord’s will is not to be fretted over.”
Abram twitched his shoulder and sent the cat spluttering onto the table into Aenti Rose’s teacup, sloshing tea over the old woman in the process.
“Ach, Alexander. You naughty sweet. Now I must change. I will rejoin you shortly, Abram Fisher.”
She hobbled from the table with her cat following and closed the door to the bedroom behind her.
Fern looked at him. “You did that on purpose,” she whispered.
He shrugged. “A broad muscle twitch, that was all.”
She looked down at her tea, and Abram reached a hand outward on the table, palm up.
“Fern, I am so sorry about your mammi. I know how dearly you loved her . . . at least, I think I do. I’m sorry now for the time I’ve missed not really seeing you . . . just tending to the land. I was afraid of what a woman in my life might mean.”
He watched her pale lashes flutter, then lift. “A . . . woman in your life? Am I . . . that?”
“Ya,” he said hoarsely.
“But I overheard you talking at the Masts’ house.”
“So that was it—Tabitha Yoder?”
“Yes, you said that you cared for her . . . and I saw you two together.”
“Fern, no one really knows, but Tabitha is a gut friend of mine . . . nothing more. I guess I’ve told Joe about her, but that’s all. She’s only a friend.” He looked into Fern’s eyes and saw a wash of joy come over the green pools.
“A . . . friend?”
“Ya, I promise.” He was struggling for something else to say when she reached a tentative finger to the contours of his palm. His heart started to beat harder as he watched her slow exploration.
She traced the long fingers slowly, up and then down, and the calluses on the lean hand from years of work; then she pushed up the cuff of his sleeve a bit and found his pulse beating amid the thick veins on the underside of his wrist.
“Fern . . .” Her name sounded like a plea from his lips, and she looked up to find his face flushed, his eyes gleaming a sleepy, heated blue.
“What do you want from me, Abram Fisher?”
“I want . . . I want . . .”
The bedroom door opened with a heralding creak, and Abram slid his palm away while Fern put her hand in her lap, feeling as though her fingertips burned where she’d touched him. Her grandmother would have been so pleased . . .
Aenti Rose approached the table. “Now, let’s talk some more to this fine young man.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
FERN LAY IN HER BED. THE EVENTS OF THE DAY SWIRLED around in her mind like yellow paint dropped in white. She could not believe that her grandmother was gone, yet she knew in her heart that there had been some subtle spiritual preparation for the event, and she could be grateful to Derr Herr for that. Mammi herself seemed to have had some inclination of her impending trip to heaven, as she’d celebrated with the rose tea.
Then Fern thought of touching Abram’s hand—it still gave her delicious chills, and she thought how strange it was that such a new pleasure in life should come on a day of death. Yet that was the way of things; she knew this especially to be true of the land, her garden.
She thumped her pillow and rolled over, thinking of all that she did not know . . . her grandmother’s remedies, even those that were written down in a large book with a careful hand. There was more to healing than simply words on paper, and it was that guidance and tutelage that she would miss. She sighed into her pillow. Certainly there was no mentoring woman to be found in Aenti Rose . . . yet Fern could pray for others, and she fell asleep on the wings of those prayers.
Fern awoke to the muffled sound of the cock crowing and grabbed her wind-up alarm clock. Nearly six thirty! She could only hope that Aenti Rose was fatigued by her journey and had slept past her normal waking hour. Fern dressed hurriedly, careful to wear all black in observation of mourning for her grandmother, did her hair, added her kapp, and flew down the stairs.
