The Judgment (11 page)

“Mr. Kauffman,” the pleasant receptionist said a short time later. “Mr. Orringer can briefly see you now.”

Sol picked up his hat and moved quickly past the man who was leaving Brandon’s office. “Hullo,” he said kindly. The man blew out a breath and said nothing, but Sol sensed the irritation seeping through his dark suit.

Brandon looked perplexed as Solomon entered the office. “Well, Mr. Kauffman,” he said cordially. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Thought I’d drop by.”

Brandon didn’t rise as Sol might have expected him to. Instead, he motioned for Sol to take a chair on the opposite side of the well-polished desk. “Any chance you’ve got some farmland to sell?”

“Pardon me?”

“Just joking,” Brandon said. “I assume you came to see me about something?”

Solomon cleared his throat. “I’d like to invite you to dinner. Something I should’ve done years ago.”

Brandon leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his hands folded beneath his chin. “What would that accomplish?”

“We might get to know each other.”

Brandon regarded Sol carefully, his eyes penetrating. “So . . . I take it Hen isn’t coming home.”

“On the contrary. I fully expect she
will
return to you.” He paused. “When she’s ready.”

“Well, I can’t wait forever. At some point I have to protect my interests.”

“Your interests?”

“My daughter, Mr. Kauffman. I can’t have her growing up Amish, now, can I?”

Sol rubbed his beard, ignoring the slight. “But you
did
tell Hen to get the Old Ways out of her system, didn’t you? I assume you meant her Amish upbringing.”

Brandon glanced downward, where his fingers tapped against the desk. “She told you that?”

“Is it true?”

“In so many words, but—”

“Then she’s going to need time. Are you a man of your word or not?”

Their eyes met, and Brandon’s lips tensed into a firm line. A moment passed as the two men regarded each other. “I’d like her to return home tomorrow,” he said. “But as I’ve stated in the letter, she has until one week from tomorrow. If she’s not back by then, I’m filing for divorce.”

Sol placed his hands on his knees and shifted forward. “Can ya give your wife a bit more leeway . . . show her some extra patience?”

“I’ve given her nearly two months already.”

“Well, then, what’s a little more time?” Sol truly wished for a better resolution to all this. “But in the meantime, you’re always welcome for dinner. You might find we’re not as backward as you’ve been led to believe.”

“I work late, Mr. Kauffman. No time for pointless dinners,” Brandon replied tersely. “Thanks for the invitation, though.”

“So, another month, then?”

Brandon shook his head no. “For what reason?”

“Well, to get some wise counsel instead of rushin’ into a divorce . . . just maybe?”

“Do you have a counselor in mind?” asked Brandon, eyeing him.

“Our bishop’s a wise man—chosen by God, in fact.”

Brandon blew air out of his mouth. “I’m acquainted with that man, and let me tell you, I’ll never set foot in an Amish bishop’s house. And I’m sure Hen would never consider going with me to a marriage counselor of my choosing.”

“No . . . prob’ly not.” Sol sighed. What was the answer to this terrible dilemma? “But . . . will ya give it more time, at least for Mattie Sue’s sake?” he asked.

“What . . . so you can indoctrinate my daughter further?” Brandon practically sneered.

“More time, Brandon. Is that too much to ask?”

Breathing loudly, Brandon stared at his desk. Then, quite reluctantly, he said, looking at Sol, “Two weeks, and not a minute longer.”

“All right, then.” Sol got up and put on his hat. “I’ll let Hen know,” he said as he headed for the door.

Rose looked across the front room at her mother, whose gaze was focused out the window, at the sky. Seeing Mamm grow weaker as each day passed, Rose’s heart was filled anew with compassion.

Hen had suggested they set up a long folding table nearby, so they could work together in the same room. Already, they’d begun to lay out yards of Amish-green fabric and different-sized dress patterns cut from brown grocery bags. Some scraps were large enough for Rose’s market dolls.

Meanwhile, Mattie Sue and Beth played in the corner with their toy animals. Rose could hear Mattie Sue trying her best to rename some of Beth’s cats and teddy bears, much to Rose’s surprise. It seemed that Hen’s little girl was bent on taking the leading role. Rose felt sure it was due to Beth’s developmental delays, and at times she cringed when Mattie Sue talked up so sassy to Beth, more than four times her age.

Mamm stirred in the wheelchair and called to her. “Rosie, dear . . . I need something to help me with this pain.” There were tears in her eyes, and her hands were clasped in trembling fists. “I need it . . . right quick.”

“What do ya want? Is there something ya should take, Mamm?” Rose asked, surprised at this request from a mother who never took pain medication.

“The new painkiller the Quarryville pharmacist suggested. I haven’t tried that yet.”

Rose could scarcely believe her ears. “Are ya sure? You know how awful sick you got last time on a mere aspirin.”
Frighteningly so
.

“But this isn’t the same . . . and I feel like I’m losin’ my mind,” Mamm said.

What should I do?
Rose wondered. “It could make your stomach wrench, Mamm.”

“The pharmacist said it was safe to try. Oh, Rosie, I can’t stand it any longer.” Mamm began to cry.

Rose’s heart broke. “All right . . . I’ll give it to you with a nice warm cookie. How’s that?”

“Milk might help, too,” Mamm added quietly.

“Jah, milk.” Rose hurried to the kitchen, hoping she was doing the right thing for her dear mother.

Opening the gas-run refrigerator, she recalled the days when Mamm was healthy and full of life. All the happy, energetic hours of hoeing the family vegetable garden together or of gathering wildflowers while Mamm’s gentle hand brushed against the tallest stems. Together with Hen, they’d sold hundreds of pretty embroidered items and other handiwork at market, and attended numerous canning bees and comforter knottings. Always, always, Mamm had been the fastest and hardest worker. To see her like she was now, day in, day out, struck Rose to the core.
She taught me the importance of hard work,
thought Rose, pushing down the lump in her throat.
Mamm taught me to cook and bake, and how to sew my faceless rag dolls, too.

But those happy years had been stolen away by an upturned carriage on Bridle Path Lane, and no one knew just what had taken place. Not even the smallest clue had been left as to the cause of the dreadful accident that had left Mamm confined to a wheelchair.

Rose located the medicine bottle in the corner cabinet.
Is this the wrong thing to do?
she fretted. Mamm was so desperate. Maybe, just maybe the pill would take the edge off her pain without causing the horrendous stomach upheaval she’d experienced with other pain relievers.

She poured a small glass of fresh cow’s milk, direct from the bishop’s milk house that morning. Then she returned to her mother with the medicine and a cookie. “Here you are,” she said, holding the glass for Mamm. “I hope you’ll be all right.”
This time.

“Go an’ get your father,” Mamm said in a husky whisper, the pill in her hand. “I want him near . . . in case I get queasy.”

She’s expecting the worst,
thought Rose, the muscles in her neck tightening. “All right, Mamm . . . I’ll go to fetch him now.”

Rose rushed to get her shawl from its spot on the wooden peg near the back porch and stepped out the door. She did not find her father in his woodworking shop, where he typically was. Thinking he might be out doing some late-season plowing with the bishop or one of her older brothers, she ran around to the back of the barn, scanning the fields in all directions.

Not willing to give up—wanting to give her mother the comfort of Dat, as she’d requested—Rose headed across the meadow to the bishop’s farm. “Surely Dat’s around somewhere.”

As she hurried past the neighboring barnyard, she scanned the area, not seeing her father. She rounded the bend and peeked into the stable, wishing she had time to go and curry Pepper, Nick’s favorite horse.

Another time,
she thought, deciding to see if Dat and his good friend Bishop Aaron might be inside having a quick cup of coffee. Sure enough, they were there, enjoying Barbara’s famous sticky buns at the table. Evidently the bishop had helped her grandfather with the woodcutting, so the men were relaxing a bit. Dat was saying as much and thanking his friend.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Rose said, going into the kitchen and catching her breath. “Mamm’s in an awful bad way, Dat. She wants you to come be with her.” Rose kept her voice low. “She’s trying the new pain medication . . . thought you should know.”

“Ach, no!” Dat fairly leaped off the bench. His forehead twisted with worry as he reached for his old work coat and flung it on, motioning for Rose to follow him outside.

“Let us know if we can help,” Barbara called after them, and Rose waved her thanks.

“Rosie, you remember how terrible sick she gets, don’t ya?” Dat shot at her over his shoulder as they dashed across the field toward the house. “What on earth were you thinkin’?”

She explained she’d tried to discourage Mamm, but to no avail. “She was just so frantic—on edge. And it’s something she’s never tried, ya know. Oh, I do hope she’ll be all right,” Rose worried aloud.

“Well, hopin’ isn’t
gut
enough. A moment’s relief just ain’t worth a possible reaction. And with her so weak right now, there’s too much risk.”

Dat was clearly irritated—so much so that Rose wondered if something else was bothering him as he huffed and puffed his way back to the house.
Ach, but what?

Chapter 11

W
ithin the hour, Mamm was experiencing horrible nausea. Sympathetically, Dat carried her into the bathroom, dread masking his bearded face as he closed the door.

Successive retching sounds tore at Rose’s heart, and she felt responsible for Mamm’s physical torment. If only she’d refused her mother! She was concerned, too, how exhausted Mamm—and Dat, too—would be by morning. In the past, her father had sat up all night, making sure Mamm was all right.
He’ll do the same again.

Meanwhile, Beth Browning moped pitifully about, pacing the length of the front room. She looked to be worrying herself sick. Rose ushered the girl outside to the back porch and pushed her short hair back from her face while Beth knelt over a large bowl, shaking and vomiting like she had a bad case of the flu. It was astonishing to witness Beth’s strange kinship to Mamm.

In the midst of the wave of illness in the house, Barbara Petersheim stood at the back door with a hot dish of Busy Day casserole, nearly enough to feed the whole church district. Or so Rose thought as she eyed the size of it and let her in.

Checking to see if Beth would be all right alone, Rose said she wouldn’t be long and left her on the porch to accompany Barbara into the kitchen. “Mamm’s terribly ill,” Rose said quietly, glancing back at Beth and explaining that her mother was having another alarming response to a pain reliever. “Oddly enough, Beth seems to be imitating Mamm’s illness.”

“Oh dear. Could it be some kind of sympathy sickness?”

Rose had heard of this sort of thing but never known anyone to experience it. “Hard to say, really.” She gave a small smile and changed the subject. “Awful nice of you to bring food,” she said, glancing toward the bathroom door. “Though, more than likely, two of us won’t be eatin’ supper.”

“Oh, just whoever’s hungry, then.”

Quickly, Rose remembered her manners. “But it’s so
gut
of you to help out, Barbara. Truly ’tis.” She showed her where to set down the casserole dish on the cookstove, saying she would stoke the fire beneath to keep the meal warm for a bit.

“I’m awful sorry your mother’s struggling like this on top of her ongoing pain,” Barbara said.

“Dat’s with her now.” Rose ushered her toward the front room, hoping to move out of earshot for Barbara’s sake. “I just feel so bad ’bout giving her the new medication. I really do.”

“She must’ve been desperate, jah?”

Rose bowed her head. “Still, I’m awful sorry. . . .”

“I know, honey-girl.” Barbara’s sweet smile touched Rose deeply. “You meant well.”

Rose’s lip trembled and Barbara gently reached for her and let her cry in her ample arms. “I never should’ve given it to her, after the other times. Dat said as much.”

“Now, now . . . ya can’t blame yourself, Rosie. It’s all right to cry. Soothes the soul, when need be.”

After a moment, Rose removed a handkerchief from her dress sleeve and dried her tears. “Poor Mamm . . . and now Beth, too.”

“I daresay Beth’ll be fine. It’s your mother I’m worried about.” Barbara’s eyes were moist now, too. “A body can’t live day in and day out with such constant pain.”

Rose had sometimes thought the same thing. No question about it, Mamm was deteriorating, unable to bounce back from something like the respiratory flu as quickly as she once did. “Dat allows Mamm to do things her way, ’least when it comes to gritting her teeth and enduring pain,” Rose explained, knowing the bishop and Barbara were well aware of her mother’s long-standing wish not to make any further efforts to see a specialist.