The Mercy (23 page)

S
olomon had witnessed firsthand Aaron’s benevolence toward Nick, offering him a job, as well as two vacant bedrooms to use upstairs, including Christian’s old room. Whenever Sol thought of it, these gestures struck him as almost inconceivable.

But when he voiced this to Emma as they settled on the porch following Sunday afternoon barn chores, Emma reminded him that he, too, had been merciful to a wayward one: their own daughter Hen.

Funny, but he’d never thought of it quite like that. Sol saw his wife’s point, though, and patted her hand as they drank the ice-cold lemonade Sylvia had made. He could hear his mother-in-law humming snippets from the
Ausbund
hymnal through the screen door as she puttered around the kitchen, making sandwiches from the eggs she’d hard-boiled yesterday.

“What do you s’pose Aaron’s daughters and their husbands think of his extending such generosity to Nick?” asked Emma.

“Well, I know Anna’s husband ain’t so keen on it. Says we ought to be careful, since Nick was most likely responsible for Christian’s death—let his anger get away with him, an’ all.”

Emma set her glass down on the small table between their wicker chairs. “But isn’t that the same as withholding forgiveness?”

“We’re human, Emma.” He looked at her. “I know what I said . . . yet I just want to be on the safe side when it comes to our family . . . ’specially Rose Ann.”

“But the Lord forgives.”

“He surely does,” Sol said.

“And don’t forget what Aaron asked of us.”

“I want to honor his request and welcome his son back, but it breaks my heart to think of Nick getting it in his head to pursue our daughter again.” Sol couldn’t bear the thought of telling Emma he’d seen Rose dash out to the meadow a week ago, calling to Nick as if they were a courting couple. He bit his lip—it was a dangerous thing, the bond that still existed between them.

“So you must think Nick killed his brother, then?”

“Nothing changes the fact they were together when Christian was injured. And they were quarreling viciously before they went riding—I saw them carryin’ on.” Sol ran his hand over his beard. “Only the Lord knows what happened afterward.”

“You must not believe Nick told the truth that day, then.”

“Well, neither does Bishop Simon, I’m told.”

Emma persisted. “We know for sure Nick helped Christian home after he was hurt.”

“Jah, ’tis true.”

“Nick could’ve left him be, ain’t? Could’ve run off right then, but he took the time to bring Christian back, slung over his own horse, leading Christian’s horse behind him.” She paused, trembling slightly. “I never understood that, and quite frankly, neither does Barbara.”

Sol turned. “She told ya this?”

Emma nodded.

Sol hadn’t thought about it in this light. His wife had certainly been pondering this plenty, with little to do but read and pray and rest. “Don’t fret, whatever ya do,” he said. “All right, love?”

“ ’Tis a mystery, I’ll say.”

“And one that might never be solved,” said Sol.

They listened to the sounds of deep summer around them as they sipped their drinks—a mule whinnying in the barn and the birds twittering and calling in the backyard trees. An airplane flew over, making a racket, scaring a whole flock of robins out of sheltering branches.

“Just lookee there,” he said.

“Who’d ever want to go so fast?” Emma said softly, covering her ears.

“Who indeed?” Sol thought of those who’d left the church over the years. Not many had ever returned—less than a handful. Sometimes he wondered if Nick Franco should’ve stayed out in the world, too . . . where he belonged.

Sylvia stepped outside and surprised them with a big bowl of cold watermelon cut up in squares. Sol told her it hit the spot, and she sat and had a few bites along with them, remarking on the scorching heat of the day. Sylvia mentioned a circle letter she’d received yesterday. “I read that a church district out in Mount Hope, Ohio, has decided to raise some money for an ailing church member. They’re having a haystack supper.”

Sol wondered if she might be concerned about Emma’s medical bills, but he’d made a very reasonable arrangement with the York hospital, as well as the osteopathic hospital in Lancaster, to make payments over the period of a year. Along with some hefty assistance from the church’s benevolence fund, if Sol pinched his pennies, he ought to have a zero balance by next spring.
If the rains keep coming,
Sol thought. They were completely dependent upon the Lord for the corn and hay harvests.

Sylvia mentioned how impressed Jeremiah was that Aaron had welcomed Nick back “in such a fashion” before she wandered back into the house. Sol and Emma’s conversation turned to the morning sermons, and eventually, Sol brought up Nick’s place at Preaching this morning—sitting clear up near the front. “Just think, Emma. What if he’d already joined church, say, years ago? What might things have been like then?”

His wife dabbed her eyes and brow with her hankie. “Awful sad, really, how things turned out.”

Sol agreed. Nick was, after all, only now preparing to make his kneeling vow. Whether or not he followed through remained to be seen. For Aaron’s sake—and for the Lord’s—Sol could only hope and pray it would be so.

After supper, Rose walked across the back lawn, toward the stable, wanting to talk to her father about Nick. But as she approached the barn, she heard a car pull into the driveway. Looking over her shoulder, she saw Mattie Sue’s little hand waving out the window at her.

“We’ve come for dessert,” Mattie announced with a grin.

Rose hurried over to greet them. She leaned in Mattie Sue’s open window. “You’re just in time,” Rose told them. Mamm would be ready for sweets, for sure. “Come on in.”

Brandon got out and went around the car to open the door for Hen. They walked hand-in-hand toward the house with Mattie skipping ahead, asking if Dawdi Sol was out with the horses. Hen told her to mind her manners and go inside with them to visit Mammi Emma first. And Mattie Sue willingly obeyed.

Mamm was delighted to see the three of them, making over Mattie Sue and smiling blissfully when Brandon leaned down to kiss her cheek. They all chattered at once, starting with talk of the various church services and all the excitement of the rainstorm, and ending with remarks about the coming baby, who was to be named either Andrew or Emmalie, after Emma. The news made Mamm smile brightly.

Dat must’ve heard the racket, because he came in and sat at the head of the table, where he visited with Brandon to his left. Rose got a kick out of the good-natured banter, and she thought how, just last year, Brandon had been alienated from their family by his choosing.
Well, thank God for his change in heart,
thought Rose as she carried a lemon sponge pie to the table. Then, going back to the counter, she brought over a beautiful white chocolate cake to share, as well.

Dat was telling Brandon the latest from his distant cousin in Wisconsin. Seems he’d written that one of the church districts there had planned a “mystery trip” to another state to tour an old prison that had been in use for a hundred years. “Now, don’t that beat all?” Dat said, a twinkle in his eye. “How’d ya like to go an’ see a prison for a church outing?”

This brought plenty of laughter to the whole table, including Mamm, who seemed to be enjoying herself as she took it all in. Rose also had to smile at Dat’s telling as she handed the cake knife to Hen after first slicing the pie.

“This same cousin told ’bout a little excitement he had when his horse got spooked by a school bus,” Dat continued. “The horse ran lickety-split like a house a-fire down the road, chasing after it. Maybe the bright yellow color was to blame. Anyway, when he couldn’t get the horse to slow down or stop, my cousin jumped out of the buggy. Poor man, he broke his ankle and a bone in his other leg. But—get this—the horse eventually came to a halt, and my cousin’s little white dog somehow managed to stay perched on the buggy seat through it all.”

Hen shook her head, amazed, as was Mattie Sue, who asked for yet another story. Merriment prevailed. But Mamm, tittering softly, placed her hand on Dat’s arm, as if to say things were getting a bit
yachdich—
noisy—for the Lord’s Day.

In a much quieter voice, Dat leaned forward on the table. “How would ya like to learn to ride a pony, honey-girl?” he asked Mattie Sue.

“Ride? Not in the pony cart?” Her eyes sparkled with joy.

“No, smack-dab in the middle of the pony.”

She leaped off the bench and ran to him, threw her arms around his neck, and leaned her face against his whiskers. “Ach, Dawdi, this is the bestest surprise ever!”

Dat said not a word as he squeezed the stuffing out of her. Rose smiled.
What a wonderful-
gut
day this is!
She glanced at Brandon, who wore a big grin . . . his thumbs turned up as if to say
Denki.

Rose finished reading a psalm before extinguishing the lantern that night. Her eyes were tired and she was ready to fall asleep. When she said her silent prayers, she included Nick, asking God to help him stay on the straight and narrow, knowing what it would do to his parents if he should fall by the wayside again.

She was still curious to know what Nick had said to Bishop Simon last week. Her father had looked awfully tired and headed off to bed with Mamm earlier than usual following Bible reading and evening prayers. So Rose hadn’t had the chance to talk to Dat about that—again. Maybe it was all for the best, anyway. After all, she didn’t want her interest to give him the wrong impression.

She’d gone to her room and sorted through Isaac’s letters, arranging them in chronological order, the very first to the most recent. She tried to imagine what Isaac might be doing right now at the beach. In six short days, she’d see him again, and he’d tell her all about it.

What might she say if Isaac admitted to doing anything rash, as Leah had suggested. Surely her beau had more sense than that, when he meant to join church someday!
Surely . . .

Yet Leah’s remarks lingered long in Rose’s mind, and it was all she could do to set them aside, fretting over her beau’s supposed strong leanings toward the world.

T
he following Wednesday morning, Rose helped Beth Browning’s grandmother rearrange and organize her dresser drawers and clothes closet. Rose also dusted the furniture and windowsills in the new addition, and washed the windows inside and out.

Later, Beth helped Rose do some cooking. Beth talked happily about her father, saying he was now regularly writing to Jane Keene. “And he calls her sometimes, too—makes him really happy to talk to her.”

A few minutes later, the Brownings’ neighbor Donna Becker dropped by with some black raspberries, still warm from the sun, enough for Rose to make two pies. Beth wanted to try her hand at baking, so they rolled out the pie dough together while Beth’s grandmother sang an old folk hymn from the kitchen table, where she sat sorting through a recipe file. Rose had heard the song several times at the big barn Singings with Isaac: “In the Sweet By and By.”

We shall meet on that beautiful shore,
thought Rose, wondering what Beth’s dear mother was doing in heaven right now. Was she spending time with loved ones gone before? Sitting beneath the Tree of Life?

She looked at Beth, so sweetly trusting and innocent. Yet she’d grown a lot since Rose met her last year, from being nearly afraid to express herself to anyone but her father . . . to feeling totally at ease with Rose and others. Rose felt it was good that her grandmother lived here now. Surely it was a blessing for Beth to have a woman in the house to talk to.

“Grandma sings a lot,” Beth said with a crooked smile. “She says she had a really high voice when she was young, but now it’s sunk lower.”

“People’s voices change as they age,” Rose said, thinking of her own grandparents.

“She used to sing in a choir when she was my age. In college somewhere . . . I forget.”

Rose wondered if Beth wished she could attend college, too. She seemed bright in some ways but struggled greatly in others.

When it was time, they each slid a glass pie plate into the oven. “One’s for you to take home, Rosie.”

“Denki.” Rose didn’t have the heart to say they had black raspberries coming out their ears. But she thought of Hen and Brandon and knew they’d welcome the scrumptious pie.
Especially if there’s whipped cream to top it off!

After quickly dropping off the still-warm pie at Hen’s, Rose noticed a homemade sign on one of the English neighbor’s fence posts, not far up from Brandon and Hen’s.
Nickers ’n’ Neighs—Horse Boarding.

How clever.
Could Nick do something like this to earn extra money at Petersheims’? He and Aaron might have to add on to the stable, but as fast as they were with building projects, it wouldn’t take long.

From what she could tell, Aaron was giving Nick plenty of work to do. But knowing Nick as she did, Rose wondered how long before he’d want his own place.
Though that’s not my concern.

It was her job to focus on the household items she still needed to fill out her hope chest, for whenever Isaac proposed marriage. Just where they’d live she didn’t know. Of course no matter where he decided, she would follow. A girl was to let her husband make such important choices, even though Rose knew without a doubt she’d miss her childhood home.

Wherever Isaac is, that’ll be home for me.
She made the turn into her father’s drive and saw Dat, Mose, Josh, and several other men making hay out in the fields. A nice hot day for it.

She pulled in close to the stable to unhitch, thankful for the shade of the barn. Back inside the house, Rose could hear Mammi Sylvia talking to Mamm, their voices drifting this way in the slow breeze.

Glancing over toward the bishop’s field, Rose saw Aaron and his sons-in-law and Nick haying, as well. She wondered if Nick had missed the feeling of community while he was gone. Amish farmers did everything together—working, worshiping, and living their lives in accordance with God’s ways. It was hard to imagine Nick lasting as long as he had alone in the bustling city of Philadelphia.

She noticed that, from this distance, he blended in perfectly with the other men. Never had he looked as alarmingly English as the day he’d returned home. She guessed it would take some time for his cropped hair to grow out into the traditional style for men, trimmed beneath the ears, with bangs. Just as it would take time to convince Bishop Simon and Old Ezekiel that his interest in God and the church was steadfast.

She finished unhitching the mare and led Upsy-Daisy into the stable for more water, which she also had been mindful to give over at Brownings’. In the barn, Rose noticed Dawdi Jeremiah, a piece of straw dangling lazily from his mouth. “Hullo,” she called. “If you’re lookin’ for Dat, he’s out makin’ hay.”

“Nee, just tryin’ to get some relief from the heat.” He removed his kerchief and wiped his neck beneath his long, untrimmed beard. “Found me a barn kitten to talk to,” he said with a grin as he pulled a tiny gray one out of his baggy bib overalls.

“Oh, how adorable!”

“It’s three weeks old or so, best as I can tell.”

Rose watched Dawdi handle the kitten tenderly. “You’ll have to show Mattie, next time she’s over.”

“Thought I’d let her name it, maybe.”

“Won’t Dat just love that—namin’ all the barn cats?” Her father wasn’t so keen on their getting too attached to the mouse chasers.

Dawdi nuzzled the kitten against his beard, the bitty thing purring like a generator. “This here’s one of God’s creatures. I say it deserves a name. Don’t you?”

“What would you name it?”

“Tillie comes to mind.” Dawdi put the cat nose to nose with him. “She looks like a Tillie to me.”

“We should see if Mattie Sue thinks so.”

He shrugged. “Jah, ’tis
gut
to let the little ones name ’em.”

She listened as his talk turned to Hen’s coming wee babe.

“Thank the Good Lord for all the young ones in the family,” he said reverently, his brown eyes raised to the ceiling for a moment. “Your Mammi Sylvia and I are awful glad things worked out so nicely for Hen.”

Rose agreed. “She’s very happy.”

“Well, so’s her feller . . . you can just see it all over his face. Knowin’ the Lord’s worked a mighty change in him.” Dawdi teased the kitten with the straw in his mouth. “Ain’t so?”

Rose smiled, enjoying the rare moment with her grandfather.

“Did ya see Samuel Esh’s rickety ol’ wheelbarrow’s for sale?” he asked suddenly, a light in his eyes.

“Can’t say I did.”

“Well, you walked home from Preachin’ last Sunday, ain’t?”

“Jah . . . why?”

“You would’ve walked right past it, then. Don’t see how you could’ve missed it. Deacon’s got it setting out front on the lawn, near the road.”

She didn’t recall. Of course, she had been deep in thought about Leah’s—and Jake’s—concern over Isaac at the shore. “Is there a For Sale sign on it?”

“Ach no.”

“How do ya know Deacon wants it sold, then?”

Dawdi removed his old straw hat and scratched the top of his gray head. “Well, now, just the way it was situated . . . didn’t need a sign. You knew it was for sale by the way it was set there. It ain’t really advertising itself to the fancy folk who fly up and down the pavement in their cars. It’s a-setting out there to attract attention of farmers who think of that road as the way home.”

She smiled, understanding what he meant. “I see.”

“A body could get it for a little bit of nothin’. Seen better days an’ all . . . served its purpose.”

“So, then, are you considering buying it?” She knew better, though she wondered why he was talking so about Deacon’s wheelbarrow being put out to pasture, so to speak.

He guffawed and the piece of straw went flying. “What would I do with it? Make a planter for flowers out of it, maybe?” With a grunt, Dawdi sat on a milk can and fanned himself with his hat. “You’re a real
gut
one, Miss Rosie Ann.”

“Not sure I shouldn’t take issue with that.” She laughed softly, moving closer.

He winked at her. “Aw, you know I’m just pullin’ your leg, honey-girl.”

“I know you are, Dawdi.”

He wiped his face again with the kerchief while the kitten nestled against him, snuggling into the pocket of his overalls. “You best be goin’ in now. Your Mamm and Mammi will wonder what’s keepin’ you.”

“All right, then. I’ll see ya at dinner.”

A curious smile crossed his face, and he shooed her away with his ratty straw hat.

As she made her way out of the barn and toward the house, Dawdi’s remarks about the deacon’s old wheelbarrow seeped down into her understanding. Dawdi had always been something of a thinker. Even as a little girl, Rose had enjoyed sitting on his knee as he imparted his homespun wisdom, always including a Bible verse here and there. Mamm believed her own hunger for the Good Book came from her father’s particular attention to Scripture.

Rose smiled, glad to be blessed with such a rich spiritual heritage.

She was halfway across the back lawn when she heard what sounded like a milk can clatter, then a muffled call for help.

Turning, she ran back to the barn, rushing past Upsy-Daisy’s stall. “Dawdi!” she called, heart in her throat. “I’m comin’!”

By the time she found him and knelt beside him on the barn floor, her dear Dawdi had already stepped from this life into the next. He looked so peaceful lying there, a slight smile on his wrinkled face.

“Dyin’s like going from one room to another,”
he’d told her last year after his stroke.

Lips quivering, Rose leaned her head down onto his chest and remembered every joyful moment spent with him. All the fun at the old fishing hole, hours spent swinging on the tree swing while Dawdi tirelessly pushed her—before her little legs were long enough to keep herself going on her own. And, oh, the watermelon seed spitting contests every summer and the sleigh rides to neighbors up and down Salem Road to go caroling. A lifetime of memories played across her mind, and she relished each and every one.

Nothing could be done for Dawdi now. Before she rose to alert her father, Rose kissed his cheek—her best good-bye. And the gray kitten, who must have jumped when Dawdi fell, came over and nuzzled up against the dearest Dawdi ever, unaware and trusting, clinging with her tiny paws to the big pocket of his overalls.