Hidden Mercies (19 page)

None of the boys had any ID on them. It was several hours before things got sorted out enough to contact their families.

When Tobias woke up, he was informed that his brother had died, electrocuted by the wires that had fallen upon him and the horse.

Some kind souls whispered that it was a blessing the brothers’ mother was not alive to face such heartache. Some tsked over the boys’ foolishness that had caused such a tragedy. Others bemoaned the fact that Henry’s father had lost a prize stallion for which he had saved a lifetime to own.

He knew what they said, because he heard the words being whispered in the corridors outside the hospital room where he lay, grieving, angry, and humiliated that he had allowed himself to be pulled into doing such a stupid, stupid thing.

What had he been thinking, encouraging Matthew to ride such a valuable and high-strung animal? What had he been thinking when he’d accepted Henry’s offer of Kentucky bourbon? What had he been thinking, getting behind the wheel of an automobile when he had next to no experience and was half intoxicated?

Tobias knew the answer. Pride and a twenty-dollar bet had destroyed his brother . . . and himself.

T
om was shocked awake when he fell, bruised, flat onto the floor. His covers were thrashed halfway off the bed. He was not surprised. Fighting one’s way out of a wrecked car with a broken leg was not a passive act. Even if it was all in his mind.

Unless this stopped, he would never want to go to sleep again.

He looked around. It was still as black as sin outdoors, but unless things had changed, his father would be milking a small herd of Guernsey cows this morning before the sun came up. The milk would be picked up by one of the local cheese factories. Farming was a hard job. Levi had told him that there were fewer and fewer Amish farmers in Holmes County. That was a shame. He respected men like his father and Levi who stayed on the land, even when nearby factories provided an easier way of making a living.

His desire to sleep was gone. Falling out of bed could do that to you.

He pulled on his clothes and went to the kitchenette to make a pot of coffee. As the coffee brewed its homey scent into the air, he tried to decide what to do so early in the morning. He could always read, but he realized that in the
emotional fallout of reliving the night that Matthew died, the one thing on earth he wanted to do right now was walk out into that inky blackness and help Jeremiah Troyer milk his cows. It felt slightly miraculous that he could do so with some expectation of being welcome.

When he arrived in the barn, Jeremiah greeted him warmly.

“What is this
Englisch
man doing up at this time of the morning?” Jeremiah said. “Are you here to take pictures of this old Amish man going about his early-morning chores?”

The tease in Jeremiah’s voice was gentle. He seemed pleased to see Tom walk in, flashlight in hand.

“I was never much good at taking pictures,” Tom replied. “But I’m pretty good at milking cows. Or at least I used to be.”

He flexed his hands, the scar tissue tight across his knuckles. He wasn’t entirely sure that he was capable of milking. His hands were not what they had been—not since the accident—but he wanted to try.

“
Ach,
I am always grateful for an extra pair of hands,” Jeremiah said. He nodded toward a galvanized bucket lying upside down on a shelf covered with a clean, white cloth.

Tom grabbed the bucket, washed off the udder of a cow that had not yet been milked, and then began the process at which he had once been proficient.

It did not go well.

His fingers were even stiffer than he had realized. It was almost impossible for him to squeeze tight enough to produce any milk at all. As he struggled to grip hard enough to even get a few drops out, he heard the rhythmic sound of Jeremiah’s milking pinging against the side of his bucket.

Jeremiah finished with the cow he was milking and took over another one while Tom struggled to do a job he had spent so many hours at when he was a boy. Sweat broke out
on his brow as he fought against the pain, and he realized that his physical therapist back at the hospital had not pushed him hard enough. Bringing a fork or cup to his mouth had never created the need for him to use his hands to this extent.

Dressing himself, fumbling with buttons, all of these things he had mastered after a while. Driving an automatic shift car had not been a problem—but now he was whipped. His hands burned and ached, his body felt like he had run a marathon, and all he had to show for a half hour of intense effort was a quart of milk.

Jeremiah came to look over Tom’s shoulder. “I am sorry. This is hard for you because of the burns. Do you want me to finish it for you?”

“Please.” Tom stood, his arms trembling from the effort he’d put out. “I keep thinking I’m getting stronger, but until this morning, I didn’t realize how weak I still am.”

Jeremiah took his place on the milking stool and soon he heard the rhythmic sounds of milk hitting tin again.

Tom looked down at his fingers, concerned. “I won’t be able to fly a helicopter unless I can regain some strength in my hands.”

Jeremiah rose, having already stripped the cow’s udder. The bucket of milk sloshed against the sides of the bucket.

“Maybe you should help me with the milking until you become strong again.”

“That is a kind offer, but I would be useless to you.”

“That is true,” Jeremiah conceded. “You are useless as a milker, but I do not think the cow minds so much if you practice on her.”

They both glanced at the cow, who was placidly chewing her cud.

“You were a friend of my boys, and I have no boys left. Having you here might ease the missing of them a little.
You will be welcome to come and try every morning if you want.”

“I would like that. This is even tougher than some of the therapy I got in the hospital.”

His father held the lantern up so that he could see, then he reached for his hand and inspected the scarring. “These fingers will become strong again, I think—and then you will be able to drive your
Englisch
helicopters again.”

•   •   •

Claire got home just as Maddy was setting out dinner for the younger children. The girl was competent, and whenever she wasn’t working at the restaurant, she seemed content to stay at home, gardening, working, and watching over the younger children. Claire did not know what she would have done without her these past months. Still, there were dark circles beneath her eyes. The girl was obviously working too hard. She was young, and she should have some nice, healthy, young-people fun.

Claire slipped her shoes off the minute she sat down. She disliked wearing shoes, especially now that it was getting warmer. “Aren’t you going to the singing tonight?”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Maddy said.

“You should go. You should have chances to be with other Amish youngies.”

The image of those
Englisch
boys eying Maddy was fresh in her mind. She made a resolution to encourage her to go to as many singings as possible. She needed to find a good, honest Amish boy to marry.

“How did work go this morning?” Maddy set a pitcher of water on the table.

“It was fine.” Claire lifted her black bonnet off her head, sat it on the kitchen table, then pulled the straight pins out of
the white prayer
Kapp
beneath. “I told Martha Keim—Caleb’s Martha—that she needs two week’s bed rest. Her due date is soon, and I am certain she is carrying twins. The poor woman can barely walk.”

Maddy glanced at her in concern. “Is she in danger of losing the babies?”

“I don’t think so, but that husband of hers is not as thoughtful as he could be. He expects her to work in the fields with him. Martha can’t even tie her own shoes—let alone do heavy farmwork.”

“Is her husband mean?” Amy asked.

“No, not at all. But he can be thoughtless. Prescribing bed rest will give her a chance to gather her strength before the babies come.”

“How can you tell for sure and for certain that it’s twins?” Amy asked.

“I heard two separate little heartbeats with my stethoscope last week when I checked on her.”

“Aww,” Amy said. “Can I go see the babies when they get here?”

“If all is well with them and their mother and father.”

Maddy started pulling tins of bread out of the oven, quickly dumping them out onto the snowy white kitchen towel. The girl was so smart. Claire was of the opinion that Maddy knew more about cooking than many women twice her age. She had bread down to a science. It was cheap and filling and they ate a lot of it.

“That looks and smells so good,” Claire said.

Maddy took a serrated knife and began to cut thick, crusty slices from the nearest loaf.

“I’ve been growing a sourdough bread starter the past few days,” Maddy said. “This is my first batch with it.”

Sarah brought a pot of honey from the pantry, while Claire
pulled a pitcher of cold milk and a crock of butter from the refrigerator. Albert brought butter knives from a drawer. Jesse set plates around the table. Sarah got drinking glasses. Amy folded napkins and gave them to Daniel who managed, by standing on tiptoe, to place one at each place.

Everyone knew their job. This was a routine they indulged in once a week, always on Maddy’s baking day.

Then each one took their seat, and all bowed their head in silent prayer. Claire gave heartfelt thanks for God’s tender care, asked Him to take care of her children and her sister. She also added a new name to her list. Tom Miller. If anyone needed prayer, that man did. Unfortunately, praying for Tom led her to thinking about him—which was not a wise thing to do. She became so engrossed in her thoughts about how she should
not
be thinking about him that she couldn’t keep from thinking about him—and ended up forgetting to lift her head until Jesse cleared his throat. She glanced up and smiled serenely—as though she had been deep only in prayer, instead of letting her mind wander to the interesting soldier next door.

Oh, what a hypocrite she was! “Shall we enjoy God’s bounty, children?”

That was the signal they had been waiting for. They all dug in; the smell of baking bread had made everyone ravenous.

The seven of them began spreading butter on the warm bread, and then slathering it with their own golden honey, flecked with tiny pieces of honeycomb, from Levi’s bees. All of it was washed down with ice-cold milk.

Claire loved this part of the week—their no-cook day, when she and the children surfeited themselves on Maddy’s fresh bread. She couldn’t even remember when they had begun this tradition. It had just developed. Not only was
it delicious, it was also thrifty—which was always a good thing.

“I think this is the best bread you’ve made yet,” she told Maddy. “I would save that recipe. It is wonderful. Did you make extra for Rose and her children?”

“I did,” Maddy said. “And you know I don’t mind, but I don’t understand why we’re taking food to Rose all the time.”

“It is hard for me to explain, just trust me when I say I believe it is the Lord’s will that we do so.”

“Can I have another piece?” Albert asked.

“Of course.” While Maddy sliced another loaf, there was a knock on the door.

“I’ll answer it.” Jesse jumped up and ran to the door.

Claire paused a moment in her enjoyment of Maddy’s culinary expertise to listen. It was probably a customer wanting to purchase something from the store. If so, Amy could handle it, but the next thing she knew, Tom Miller was standing in the doorway with a familiar-looking basket in his hand, and it was filled with strawberries.

“Oh!” Claire was surprised. “It is you.”

It came out sounding ruder than she intended, but she was surprised to see the man she found herself thinking about entirely too much, standing here in her kitchen.

Tom smiled his crooked smile. “Jeremiah asked me to bring these over in payment for the dinner you sent.”

This information struck her as odd. “That was two days ago. How does Jeremiah now know you so well that he asks you to do this thing?”

“I’ve helped him milk.”

“Jeremiah asked you to help him milk?”

“No.” Tom flexed one hand. “He’s allowing me to help him as a sort of physical therapy.”

“Really.” This caught her attention. “Is it helping?”

“Actually, it is. I’m definitely gaining a little strength and flexibility.”

“That is good. I am surprised, though. Jeremiah is an admirable man, but warmth toward
Englischers
is not his strong suit.”

“He’s an old man and he’s lonely,” Tom said. “I guess I was better than nothing.”

“That’s true. Both of his sons and his wife are gone, and his only daughter moved away about a year ago.”

“Yes, he told me about that.”

“When?”

“While we were milking. We were talking about places that we’d been and he mentioned having a daughter and son-in-law who moved to the Gallipolis, Ohio, area with some other Amish.”

“You ate with him?”

“Yes,” Tom said. “We had a good visit.”

That stung. Jeremiah had not said more than two words to her since she left the church. She had even stopped lifting her hand in a silent wave to him when he rode by because he never acknowledged her with so much as a nod.

Even though she knew what she was giving up when she joined the Old Order church, it was still a shock to her how completely she had been cut off from people she had once thought loved her.

That was the power of the
Meidung
. It brought people back into the church by breaking their hearts. Sometimes those hearts needed breaking. Hers had not. “Would you have supper with us?”

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

“Some coffee, then? There’s still some warm on the stove.”

“I would not say no to that.”

“Albert, would you get him a cup?”

The minute Tom sat down at the table, Jesse began an interrogation.