The Atonement (8 page)

L
UCY
OPENED
THE
BACK
DOOR
to her grandmother's small
Dawdi Haus
and stepped quietly inside. Mammi Flaud was sitting in her most comfortable chair, a gray recliner, a few feet from the oak hutch built by Lucy's grandfather decades ago. Mammi's eyes were closed and her gray-white head leaned back in sweet repose, but as Lucy moved inside, the floor creaked and Mammi awakened, her wrinkled face breaking into a sunshine of a smile.

“
Ach
. I was tryin' my best to be quiet.”

“You're chust fine, child.” Her grandmother leaned on the arms of the chair as she inched up to a stand, though still a bit stooped. “Your cousin Barbie Ann, over in New Holland, came by yesterday and dropped off a large bag of fabric leftovers,” Mammi said as they went into the kitchen and sat down for some coffee.

“How nice for the quilter in you,
jah
?” Lucy was happy for this windfall her beloved grandmother had received. “Let's have a look-see.”

Mammi began to lay out an array of fabrics: solids, florals, polka dots, plaids, and even a holiday pattern.

“Just imagine how much it would cost to purchase all this fabric,” said Lucy. “About how many quilts can ya make with this?”

“At least two big ones, I'm guessin'.” Mammi picked up a paisley print in maroon, indigo, and navy.

Lucy had to smile. “Like an early Christmas gift.”

“Ain't that the truth!” Mammi's wrinkled face lit up. “Well, dear, how long can ya stay and help me organize?”

“Oh, an hour or so. I promised Martie I'd give her a hand with some baking.”

“For after Preachin' service tomorrow?”

Lucy nodded. “Can't believe Martie offered to bring most of the snitz pies for the shared meal.”

“Bless her heart.” Mammi smiled, looking the picture of health in her pretty maroon-colored dress and black apron. “Martie's one ambitious woman.”

Lucy recalled how, years back, Tobe Glick had helped his mother carry in dozens of snitz pies for a gathering of all the courting-age teens in the district. It was the night Lucy had agreed to go walking with him. They'd laughed and talked away the evening—a
gut
time for certain.

Life was so simple then. . . .

Shrugging off the memory, Lucy went to the walk-in pantry adjacent to the kitchen to get the leaves for her grandmother's table. After adding those, she began to spread out the material. Together, she and Mammi smoothed and folded and made tidy stacks according to style, color, and pattern. It was a delight doing this, and Lucy wished now she hadn't said she'd be at Martie's quite so early.

While they sorted, Mammi talked of the upcoming canning bee, then remarked that she was in the process of making a list of her dozens of grandchildren and greats, as well as their birthdays.

“Maybe you should sort
them
by personality or looks, instead of just age,” Lucy suggested, laughing softly. “Or you could keep
a worksheet like Dat has out in the barn—his breeding records for the livestock, ya know.”

“Well, now!” Mammi's face turned red.

“
Ach
, I didn't mean it like it sounded.” Lucy felt worse than embarrassed. “I just meant you could use an easy way to keep track of everyone.”

“I'm not sure I've tallied up how many there are. 'Least, not lately.”

“Well, I'm sure we could count them together—after all, they're my cousins, ya know.”

Her grandmother nodded. “Meanwhile, I best be comin' up with a plan for all this fabric.”

“Maybe you could make quilted potholders for each of the girls on your birthday list.”

“I like that idea. Or for their hope chests, ain't?” Mammi clapped her frail hands. “What 'bout yours, Lucy—is there anything ya might need yet?”

“Not that I can think of,” Lucy replied, relieved when Mammi let the topic drop.

Bidding Mammi good-bye, she headed to Martie's.

Lucy arrived at Ray and Martie's ten minutes later than planned that Saturday morning, since Mammi Flaud had talked her into staying a little longer. Typically, Lucy preferred to be prompt for work, if not early.

Quickly, she washed her hands in the gleaming white sink. Then she measured out the necessary ingredients to make a generous amount of pie dough, eventually rolling it out at one end of the long counter while Martie worked on the opposite side.

Meanwhile, young Jesse sat under the table playing, jabbering softly while Josh napped in a Pack 'n Play in the corner, arms flung wide.

“I heard Dat had an English visitor yesterday,” Martie said, resting her hands on the rolling pin.

Lucy was surprised Martie knew. Her own recollection of Dat's conversation with the young man rose up in her mind as vividly as some of Mammi Flaud's floral fabrics. “How'd ya hear?”

“Ray learned it from James.”

“Well, it seemed rather strange” was all Lucy wanted to say.

“
Jah,
James said as much. And we'll just leave it right there,” Martie said, waving a hand toward the stove. “By the way, I already soaked the dried apples overnight and cooked them on low heat to make our work go faster.”

Lucy thanked her, glad that part of the chore was already done. And once the pie dough was ready to be pressed into the greased pie plates, she measured the sugar, salt, and cinnamon to mix with the apples in a large bowl, then added the lemon juice. “Remember when Mammi Flaud made all her meals on that old black cookstove?”

Martie grimaced. “I can't imagine cookin' and bakin' thataway.”

“I'll never forget the day she gave in and got her gas-powered range and oven,” Lucy added. “She declared they had a special place in her heart.”

Nodding, Martie set the oven just as Jesse crawled out from under the table, still clinging to his truck. He asked for some pots and pans to play with.

“He likes to pretend he's drumming,” Martie said, kissing his forehead.

“Like in a band?”

“Goodness knows how he came up with that.”

This boy could be a handful,
Lucy thought, but she didn't say a word. Instead, she asked her sister, “How many pots and pans?”

“Three's plenty.” Martie motioned for Jesse to go and sit with his noisemakers in the far corner of the kitchen.

“Here, you'll need this, too.” Lucy gave him a long, sturdy wooden spoon.

Jesse was still holding the truck as he tried unsuccessfully to pick up one of the pans. Lucy helped him out of the way and took time to arrange the pots and pans just so. Giving Lucy a determined look, he began to pound away.

After a moment, he stopped beating and asked for a second wooden spoon. “
Ich welle der Leffel. . . .
”

Lucy headed over to see if Martie had another wooden spoon, but her sister wagged her head. “Where does it end with this child?”

“He seems to know what he wants,
jah
?”
Something Mamm always said about me
, Lucy thought with a flash of recognition.

She and Martie laughed together, and Lucy was glad to spend the day with her closest sister.

On the way home that afternoon, Lucy could hear their Amish neighbors not far from her father's farm calling back and forth as they drove their heifers from one grazing area to another. Lucy enjoyed the pleasant sound, as well as that of the babbling brook that flowed along the roadside and down to Abe and Anna Mary Riehl's dairy farm. Lucy recalled wading barefoot in it when she and her sisters were younger. She sighed with the sweet memory, glad to be nearly home after helping Martie with the pies and a bit of other cooking for the better part of the day.

When Lucy rounded the bend and the familiar front yard came into view, she saw the red pickup parked in the driveway and stopped short.
Dat's friend is back
.

As before, she took the opposite route around the house, toward the back door, and was startled when she nearly bumped into the tall, blond
Englischer
. “
Ach
, goodness!” she burst out.

The man reached out to steady her, but she stepped backward,
wanting nothing to do with him. “Are you all right, miss? I didn't see you coming.”

“I'm fine,” she said, embarrassed, and would have hurried on her way, but he was intent on speaking.

“You must be Christian's daughter.”

She stiffened and turned slowly, reluctant to confirm his assumption.

“If you don't mind, I'd like to introduce myself.” He pushed his hair away from his forehead with long, tanned fingers. “I'm Dale . . . Dale Wyeth.” He smiled, eyeing her curiously. “You look a lot like your mother.”

He's met Mamm?

“Did my father invite you back?”

Despite the obvious rudeness of her question, Dale smiled. “He offered to show me your uncle's woodworking shop—especially the diesel generator.”

“Oh.” She wondered if Uncle Caleb was expecting them.

“I was just headed back to my truck now for my cell phone—wanted to take pictures for my own reference, nothing more. Of course I'll be careful not to get your father or uncle in any of them.”

“That's
gut
, but have ya considered that having a vehicle parked in our lane ain't the best thing?” she asked. “A poor witness to anyone ridin' by.”

His face turned pink. “I never thought of that.”

“
Nee.
”
An outsider wouldn't,
she wanted to say.

Why didn't he just skedaddle, or was Dale up to more than what he'd indicated?

“I meant no harm,” he replied, his voice quieter now.

No harm?
Past experience had taught her otherwise.

“I should get goin'.” Without waiting for a good-bye, she abruptly turned and left him standing there.

Making the turn past her grandmother's kitchen window, she saw Mammi Flaud standing at her sink, a look of bewilderment
on her face. Lucy backtracked to the
Dawdi Haus
and up the porch steps.

“I couldn't help seeing what happened,” Mammi said, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.

“That fella nearly knocked me over.” Lucy fanned her face with the hem of her apron.

Mammi gave her a discerning look. “You're all worked up.”

“Am I?”

Mammi poured a glass of water and brought it over to her. “Sit yourself down and take a long drink before you say another word.”

“But Mamm's expectin' me to gather eggs,” Lucy countered.

“I daresay those eggs can wait.” Her grandmother took a seat across the table. “I'm curious. Do ya think you might've been a bit inconsiderate with that nice young man?”

“He's
nice
, is he?” Lucy leaned forward. “Have you met him, then?”