The Atonement (14 page)

A
FTER
L
UCY
AND
D
AT
ARRIVED
HOME
,
they spent some time with Mamm in the kitchen, where cookies and hot cider were waiting. As soon as she could reasonably excuse herself, though, Lucy dashed off to her room. She was too on edge to discuss the possible sale of the necklace tonight, assuming Dat might've brought it up. Instead, she took a moment to read the latest job classifieds, searching for something that might be a springboard to a better life for Kiana and her son.

Finding nothing, Lucy decided not to put off writing to Tobe Glick any longer. Before she changed her mind, she sat down at her desk and took out some nice stationery:
Dear Tobe, I hope you'll overlook my delay,
she wrote.
This week has nearly gotten away from me, but I've been thinking about what you
asked me . . . and I have prayed about it, as you
requested.

In her best handwriting, she gave her reply. And when she'd signed off, Lucy slipped the letter into an envelope and sealed it shut. Tomorrow morning, her response would be in the mail.

Tobe should have this by Saturday afternoon.

The next afternoon, Martie hitched up the family buggy for the visit to Mammi Flaud's, thinking she might arrive around the time Lucy got home from her work downtown with the homeless. Often the last person to finish up, Lucy had told Martie how important it was to make sure each pot and pan was scrubbed and everything put back in order. Martie smiled at the thought.
Lucy could probably oversee the whole thing!

When Martie pulled into Dat's driveway, she directed the horse over behind Mammi's cozy house. Getting out of the carriage, she tied the mare to the hitching post and helped little Josh out next as Jesse clambered down on his own. “We'll mind our manners,
Yunge
, ya hear?” she said as they walked up the stone path.

Her grandmother's face brightened the minute she saw them. “Oh,
kumme
right in! I chust read your column, Martie. You do a fine job of representin' our community round the country.” She leaned down to peck Jesse's head, and Martie picked up Josh so he could also receive a kiss on his chubby cheek. “My, yous are all dressed up nice.”

Recalling Jesse's howls at having a bath before leaving home, Martie smiled. “They got scrubbed real
gut
, let me tell ya.”

Mammi Flaud beamed as she led the boys to the table and brought out some applesauce cookies she'd made just that morning.

Martie waited for Jesse to get seated, hoping to goodness he would be polite; then she sat with Josh on her lap. “We had us a busy mornin' of baking while Jesse made mud pies just out the back door,” she said, grinning at her firstborn. “Ain't so, Jesse?”

Jesse nodded, then held up his toy truck to show Mammi.

“Well, I declare!” Mammi said. “Say now, if ya stay long enough, you might just see a big truck pull right into the driveway.”

Martie sighed at this.

Mammi continued with a glance at Martie. “Your father invited that young man from the classes he goes to on Thursdays to come by . . . Dale Wyeth. The fella with the pickup.”

Jesse raised his eyebrows. “
Bloh?
”

“Not blue,
nee
. You'll see what color 'tis,
Bobbli
.”

Frowning, Martie attempted to signal her grandmother not to go on anymore about Dale Wyeth and his truck. Alas, Mammi didn't seem to understand, because she kept talking about that “
Englischer
with the loud truck—in color and otherwise.”

Fortunately, Jesse himself somewhat changed the subject by telling Mammi in a faltering yet lengthy description about getting all the mud off his toy truck, and himself, in the bathtub earlier.

By now, Mammi was laughing, her head tilted back. And since her grandmother was having such a good time, Martie didn't have the heart to put a stop to the frivolous talk.

Later, when the boys were finished with their snacks, Mammi went to her utility closet and brought out two big wooden puzzles for Jesse to play with on the floor. Josh, sitting not far from his brother, had been fighting off sleep, and soon conked out with his blanket next to his rosy cheek, his legs sprawled out.

“I'm real glad yous came,” Mammi said, still sitting across the table from Martie, her wrinkled hands folded on the plastic placemat. “I get lonely for ya, dear. Miss seein' you.”

“Well, I'd like to visit more often, 'specially now that Jesse and Josh are older.”

“I look forward to that.” Mamm nodded her head, really studying her. “You look so fit, Martha. Such a healthy glow to your face.”

Martie wondered if she'd guessed her baby news. “Well, it seems I'm carryin' twins.”

“Two wee babes! Well, now, I had a hunch you were in the family way. How's Ray takin' all this?”

“Oh, he was in denial for a week, let me tell ya. But now that I've had the ultrasound to confirm twins, he's struttin' round like
Dat's rooster.” Martie bobbed her head in the direction of the hen house. “Which is funny, 'cause initially he really doubted this could be . . . when the doctor first suspected it.”

Mammi grinned. “Well, now, the Lord
Gott
knew ya needed that big house on the hill, ain't so?”

“I'll say.”

“Keep me in mind to help once the babies come, won't ya?”

“Oh, I will . . . 'specially the first few months.”

Mammi bobbed her head. “Just think, it won't be many more years and I'll be helpin' your sisters with their little ones, too.”

Martie wondered if, or when, her grandmother might ever be told of Lucy's past secret. As far as Martie knew, it was a closed issue . . . Mamm and Dat's earnest wish.
Lucy's too.

When they'd exhausted the topic of twins, Mammi excused herself to go to her sewing room around the corner. She returned with piles of fabrics. “Aren't these perty?” She shook out a few pieces, holding them up. “These here are for potholders—Lucy's idea. All the rest, I'm thinkin', can be used for quilts to sell. I've already done up three potholders.” She displayed those next.

Martie marveled at her grandmother's tiny quilting stitches, running her fingers over them.

“Honestly, I need to keep my hands—and heart—busy.” Mammi's eyes squinted shut for a moment.

“Maybe I can help ya stitch up one of the quilts later this fall,” Martie offered.

Immediately, Mammi brightened. “I could invite some of the womenfolk for a quilting bee, in fact. We'd have a big meal at noon, and then homemade popcorn balls and a variety of treats for later. What do ya say?”

Martie felt like smiling now, too.

Just then, they heard a vehicle coming into the driveway next door. Jesse jumped up and ran to the back door to peer out, his nose pressed against the pane.

“Didn't I tell ya that fancy truck would show up here, Jesse?” Mammi chortled.

In spite of herself, Martie was intrigued. So her father's friend was back for yet
another
visit?
He's becoming quite chummy. Awful peculiar for Dat to befriend
an outsider like this.

“How often does Dale visit?” Martie asked.

“It's the third time that I know of. Your mother tells me that if your father had his way, he'd ask the young man to stay for a weekend.”

“
Emschtlich—
seriously?”

“Oh
jah
. Your father's ever so keen on helpin' the fella learn to be less dependent on the world. The young man says it's a way to reconnect with his roots.” Mammi went to the sink and washed her hands.

“Why does he want to do that? Just feeling nostalgic, like some
Englischers
?” Martie walked to the back door, where she stood with Jesse, even more dumbfounded to see Dale walking out toward the chicken coop with not only Dat, but with Lucy, too.

What the world?

R
ELUCTANTLY
, L
UCY
MOTIONED
for Dale Wyeth to follow her to their large chicken coop when her father was called away to the barn in the midst of the so-called tour.
Be nice,
she told herself. Trying not to reveal how ill at ease she felt, Lucy pointed out the fenced-in chicken run to Dale.

She supposed her father believed there was no harm in showing this man around the hen house. Even so, she wished she had gone directly indoors upon arriving home, instead of going with Dat when he'd called to her. If so, she would be busy now with Mamm and her sisters, helping to make supper, biding time until Dat and his
Englischer
friend finished their latest visit before she headed out to gather the afternoon eggs.

And Dale would be wandering about by himself,
she thought.

“I'd like to build something similar to what you have here.” Dale crouched down to peer through the chicken wire, his blond hair resembling new bedding straw in the afternoon light. “On a much smaller scale, though.”

“I haven't seen 'em much smaller,” she told him.

Dale stood up and flashed his winning smile. He'd worn pressed
navy khakis instead of jeans, and a pale yellow long-sleeved Oxford shirt, probably having come straight from work. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you a question?”

She'd hoped this tour wouldn't involve much conversation. “S'pose not.”

“In your opinion, what's the best thing about living the simple life?”

An odd question.
“Actually, never thought 'bout it.”

He instantly looked apologetic. “It's all you know, of course.”

“Most folk round here would prob'ly say they enjoy a slower pace,” she said.

“In some ways, it seems harder.” The kindness in his light brown eyes caught her off guard.

“Well, more sweat and discipline, I 'spect. But not necessarily slow. My life's anything but.” She moved toward the hen house, offhandedly mentioning that volunteer work often kept her busy.

“Charity work?” Dale asked, sounding impressed. “So then, you must be quite comfortable with non-Amish folk.”

“
Englischers
is what we call them . . . well, you.”

He laughed. “I stand corrected.”

“These days, we Amish rely on tourism and other means to supplement farming income. Things like craft and quilt shops, or selling candles, and jams and jellies. Men sometimes have to find work other than farming, too. A number do woodworking or construction, masonry or welding. Why, some even build solar panels.”

“I've noticed that but hadn't really thought about it before. And this has happened in the past few years?”

“More than just a few,” she explained, “clear back since we started to run out of farmland here in Lancaster County.”

“Fascinating.”

She shrugged. “What we really need is more land. We aren't so isolated anymore.”

He nodded. “Or insulated.”

She ducked to enter the chicken coop, where the nesting boxes were located, and Dale followed, observing carefully. She pointed out the wire-covered ventilation door and the long roosting bar, too.

“Did your father build this coop?” asked Dale, inspecting the floor, where straw had spilled over.

“Back before I was born.”

He ran his hand over a small section. “Do you have any idea what type of flooring goes into newer coops? Is it like this?”

Dale's serious interest in raising chickens took her aback. “You could ask my father or one of the English farmers on Oak View or Harvest Road. Those are all Yankee farms over there.”

Dale stood up and reached to open the wide, horizontal ventilation door. “I'm looking into getting plans online.”

She found his dependence on complicated technology in order to discover how to live more simply rather amusing, considering.
Is he aware of the irony?

Moving slowly and quietly past the still-nesting hens, Dale mentioned having done some research on various breeds of chickens and their behaviors.

She thought of telling him that reading up on this was one thing, but actually doing it was another. Dale Wyeth had lots to learn, she decided. Then again, he was doing exactly what he should and learning from those who were already doing it.

When they were outside again, he stepped off the dimensions of the chicken run. His sporty gray tennis shoes seemed ridiculously out of place.

“How do you live so simply in a complex world?” Dale asked brightly.

Another strange question,
she thought. “It isn't just a matter of simple versus complex,” she said. In all truth, some of the ways they did things were
more
complicated, and sometimes technology
could actually simplify certain tasks. “The People have chosen a path that honors our forefathers and is a silent witness to the world,” she told him. “That's our intention . . . rather than simplicity. For instance, it would be simpler and faster to buy our produce at a grocery store than to grow our own.”

“True.” He scratched his head. “I get your point.”

She wanted to remind Dale that whatever he was doing here was between him and her father. But his steady, friendly gaze appealed to her, and she believed he was sincere. “Surely you've noticed some of our unique ways of doing things, like our propane-powered fans in the barn and stable, for one. There are also some Amish farmers who have solar panels for their houses.” She paused, thinking of all the things she took for granted every day. “Of course, all Amish grow produce as much as possible and stock up at least a year's worth of canned goods. It's important to plan ahead.”

“I certainly agree with that,” Dale said. “Your dad was kind enough to show me around the rest of the farm so I could see how you manage without electricity. He even took me over to see your uncle Caleb's workshop. What a fascinating setup!”

“So, you've seen something of how we live.”

“Your dad also mentioned something called a Candelier . . . thought it might come in handy.” Dale smiled at her again.

“Well, we haven't had ours for long.” She motioned him toward the house, where she suggested he sit on the back porch while she got the lightweight three-candle lantern. “Here 'tis.” She carried the candle lantern out to him. “This produces a mighty strong light . . . you can even heat water on its top.”

Dale peered inside the glass and tapped on it lightly. “Someone was very ingenious to create this,” he said softly, shaking his head in amazement. “I'd like to see it lit up at night.”

“Think of a hundred lightning bugs. That's how bright it'll be in the dark.”

He returned the large lantern to her. Then she excused herself and returned it to the house.

Inside the kitchen, Lettie was stirring something in a big pot on the stove. “Looks like you've made a new friend, sister,” she said in a singsongy voice.

Lucy ignored her. “Where are Mamm and Faye?”

“Down cellar getting some jars of chowchow and pickles.” Lettie smiled at her again. “But Dale's waitin' out on the porch for ya. . . .”

“Keep in mind he's Dat's friend.”

“What's the problem, Lucy? Our father's doin' the same thing you do all week long, helpin' others.”

“Well, this is different—you don't know
Englischers
the way I do,” Lucy snapped.

“Why, 'cause ya volunteer?”

Refusing to get into a pointless disagreement, Lucy headed back outside, hoping Dale wouldn't expect her to make further small talk. She was glad the screen door wasn't the only door stopping her and Lettie's conversation from leaking out to the porch.

Dale was leaning on the banister when she stepped outside again. “I'm curious,” he said, arms folded. “You mentioned volunteering.”

“
Jah
, for church-approved organizations.”

“And you've been doing this for a while?”

“Three years next month.”

“Do others in your family or circle of friends also volunteer?”

She realized she could either tell him to mind his own business, or try to stop feeling so annoyed
with him. The question seemed innocent enough.

Maybe he really is curious, like he said.

“Plenty of us volunteer at the Mennonite Central Committee up in Ephrata—makin' quilts and checking donated kits for shipping overseas.” She went on to describe some other activities she
was involved in, but felt increasingly uncomfortable. She wasn't used to talking so much about herself.

“Wow,” Dale replied. “You must be awfully busy.”

Not busy enough . . .

She mentioned wanting to take her grandmother to the hospice where she helped out a couple times a week. “Mammi Flaud would be so
gut
with the patients, I'm sure of it.”

“Spending time with people who are dying?”

“Comforting them, ya know.” She sighed.

Dale's expression grew thoughtful. “I'm sure they appreciate you offering them some hope.”

He'd touched on a nerve, though she had no idea how they'd landed on this topic. “Honestly, I have a Mennonite friend who's
gut
at calming the patients with Scripture or prayer.”

Lucy braced herself for the next question, for surely it was on the tip of his tongue. Dale's attentive eyes searched hers, and she wished now that she hadn't shared so much.

My prayers don't seem to matter anymore,
she thought.
Otherwise, God would answer.
But she certainly wasn't going to tell
him
that.

“Well, I need to get back to the store. It's been great getting acquainted with you, Lucy. Thanks for your time.” Moving toward the steps, Dale smiled and said good-bye.

He made his way toward the truck and was just about to get in when little Jesse came darting out of Mammi's back door, running as fast as he could toward Dale and the truck.

“Slow down, there!” Lucy called to the boy. “For goodness' sake!”

But Jesse had eyes only for the red pickup.

Dale reached down and scooped Jesse up to show him the bed of the truck, then brought him over to the driver's-side window, letting him peer inside.

Lucy stepped forward, surprised.

“Does he belong to your family?” Dale turned to her.

“That's Jesse, my sister Martie's boy.”

And here came Martie this minute, white
Kapp
strings waving as she flew over the sidewalk from the
Dawdi Haus
, hands outstretched toward Jesse.

“Jesse!” Martie called, her cheeks pink.

Dale looked downright
ferhoodled
, caught between the exuberance of the boy and the concern of his mother. “I apologize if I stepped out of bounds.”

“
Nee,
ain't your fault.” Martie lifted Jesse down from Dale's arms. “What were ya doin', running off like that, son?” She held him near, scolding him in
Deitsch
all the way back to Mammi's place.

Dale shrugged ruefully in Lucy's direction. “I'm real sorry,” he said again.

Lucy hardly knew what to do or say, so she turned and headed into the house.
Next time, wear your work boots and jeans,
she thought with a titter.
Then again, maybe there won't be a next time.