The Fiddler (12 page)

Feeling altogether anxious yet at the same time joyful, she intended to see this through, come what may, and not just for the sake of the bishop. Her skirt flapped against her legs as she hurried around to the front of the house in time to see Michael marching her way.

Lillianne stared, quite befuddled.
What does it mean?

M
ichael’s heart went out to his mother, whose face was alight as she spotted him. He simply could not let her think he was returning for good . . . wouldn’t be fair. His gut wrenched. “I’m just comin’ to talk to Daed awhile,” he explained.

“Oh.” Her dear face turned sad. “He’s out yonder . . . in the stable.”

Michael gave his head an abrupt nod. “Why don’t ya come along, too?”

“Are ya sure?”

“ ’Course I am, Mamma.”

“All right, then.”

He noticed her stiffen, and the worry lines on her forehead were suddenly visible.
One way or the other, I have to do this. O Lord,
he prayed,
have mercy on all of us.

The humid stable air smelled like a mixture of sweet hay and feed. Daed stroked the horse’s side, working the currying brush as dots of perspiration stood out on his neck and face. His middle hung slightly over the waistband of his dark work pants.

Mamm busied herself in the next stall, then went to water their younger horse. Michael hung back at first, observing Daed’s caring way with old Cricket.
He’s so gentle with the animals. . . .

Drawing in a slow breath, he made his feet move forward. It was time to go through with it.
Long overdue.

Thoughts of their many quarrels came rushing back. In reality, they were all about differences of opinion—molehills made into mountains. Michael knew that now. Even a short time away from this familiar setting had brought a measure of perspective. As had Amelia . . .

His father glanced over at Michael, spotting him there. The horse neighed loudly, and Daed looked back at the animal, still moving his grooming brush.
Demanding soul, Cricket . . .

“Daed, I’d like to talk to you for a minute.”

“What’s on your mind?”

Pausing, Michael wondered whether to blurt out his decision and just be done with it. Just get the
hatt—
difficult—task over right quick. Wouldn’t it be less painful for both of them that way?

Turning again slightly, Daed ran a callused hand through his thick, dark beard. “Listen, Michael, I’ve thought ’bout what I said yesterday. Frankly, I was out of order.” His voice was quiet, unruffled.

“I’m not here for an apology, Daed. I’ve provoked your anger unnecessarily, and all too often.”

“But I lost my temper—a sin and a shame,” his father rebutted. “Never should’ve talked that way.”

“Daed, I—”

“If ya don’t mind, let your old man finish, won’t ya?”

Nodding but feeling frustrated, Michael waited. “Jah . . . sorry.”

Daed scratched the horse behind his ears. “Your Mamma and I are hopin’ you’ll stay on here as long as need be . . . till you join church. We mean this, son.” Daed extended his hand. “Making your life vow’s a mighty serious thing.”

Even though astounded by his father’s tone and offer, Michael accepted his handshake—a stronger grip he’d never felt. “Tellin’ the truth, I never expected this,” he said, uncomfortable now.

“And, son, there’s something else.”

“Jah?”

“I don’t want ya parkin’ your car over yonder at your uncle Jerry’s. I ain’t blind, Michael; I know you thought you were hidin’ it there.” Daed’s brawny shoulders rose and fell. “From now on, keep it here, parked in the lane.” He pointed at the window across the stable.

“I wouldn’t think of disgracing you thataway,” Michael replied.

“Bishop John insists . . . and so do I.”

The bishop?
Michael was stunned, yet he knew better than to question.

Daed’s eyes were moist in the corners.

No . . . no,
Michael thought,
don’t go soft on me!

Nearly an hour passed, and Amelia wondered what was keeping Michael—hopefully things were going well with his visit home. She mentally stopped herself. Was it possible she cared too much about the outcome, having identified so readily with Michael’s woes?

Joanna was presently talking about several sewing projects, some of which she sold at Bird-in-Hand Farmers’ Market on Route 340, she said.

“Do you have many encounters with Englishers?” Amelia asked.

“Not much other than at market.” Joanna shook her head quickly. “My cousin Marissa was the closest English friend I had . . . ’cept Mennonites aren’t really considered fancy folk so much anymore. Her family is pretty conservative.”

“Marissa? Is that the same girl who was engaged to Michael?” Amelia stared at the hope chest within feet of where she sat, determined not to meet Joanna’s eyes—like Michael, she seemed to read her far too easily.

Joanna told her that Cousin Marissa was indeed one and the same. “You know ’bout her?” Her tone revealed her surprise. She might as well have said, “
I think you know Michael better than you’re letting on. . . .
”

“She must be a very special girl,” Amelia said.

“Oh, is she ever.”

Amelia wasn’t sure she should ask the question but did anyway. “Where is your cousin now?”

Rising, Joanna went to the window and looked out. “She’s training to go overseas, as a missionary.”

“Don’t mean to be nosy,” Amelia said.

“Not to fret.”

“I’d guess you find it somewhat awkward talking to an outsider. Especially about family.”

Joanna shook her head. “With you, not at all.” Then her face broke into a pleasant smile. “
Gut
friends—the way I feel with Marissa.”

Do I remind her of Michael’s former fiancée?
Amelia cringed.

Then, as if reading her thoughts, Joanna pulled the other chair over next to hers and sat down. “I’m not comparing you to her, mind you. It’s more of a feeling, I guess. But like I said earlier, you
do
resemble someone from just up the road.” Pausing, Joanna gazed into her face. “Michael’s only niece is slender and tall, too, and has dark hair like yours.” Joanna frowned momentarily, looking away suddenly. “I guess Michael didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“That Lizzie’s been a-yearnin’ for the English world. Got her first taste of it when she begged Michael to let her drive his car some time back.” Joanna shook her head sadly. “’Tis just a shame—such a
gut
girl she used to be. To think she’s bringing heartache to her parents.”

“Has she left Hickory Hollow?”

“Jah, she wanted to get her education, like Michael’s doin’. Enrolled in the spring quarter at a college in Harrisburg is what I heard.”

Suddenly Amelia felt somehow party to Michael’s rebellion, knowing he was speaking to his father even now about his intention to leave home.

They sat there, neither adding more to the conversation. Finally Joanna revealed how “awful anxious” everyone had been about Michael the past few years, hoping he might become a church member . . . someday.

Amelia did not have the heart to tell her how close he was to “going fancy.” Instead she shared something of her own father’s aspirations for her.

One thing led to another, and eventually Amelia told Joanna about the storm that blew in last night and led her to Michael.

“Michael’s an upstanding fella, I’ll say,” Joanna said.

Amelia agreed, careful to hold her smile in check.

Lillianne shooed flies with the hem of her long black apron. She had nothing at all to hide, despite the fact she’d overheard everything her husband and son had said to each other. And oh, if she wasn’t ever so pleased with Paul’s kindly way.
This time . . . thank the dear Lord.

Yesterday, their strict bishop had stopped by and declared that Paul must use a gentler hand—and words—with Michael from here on out.
“Heap coals of fire,”
Bishop John had encouraged them. He was adamant that they retain Michael for God and the church, no matter what it took. Obviously, what they had been doing was not working one iota.

Lillianne had never known Bishop John to be so sympathetic, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he felt sorry about past harsh demands on some of the young folk.
“You must learn to rein in your temper—show kindness and be longsuffering,”
the bishop had told Paul, who had nodded, clearly wretched after Michael had fled the house.

“O Lord, show our Michael the way,” Lillianne whispered as she headed down to the springhouse. She glanced out toward the road, hoping Michael might take his father’s invitation to heart.

Their son had looked mighty ferhoodled when he came out of the stable.
He must’ve come back to say he was leaving.

He had surprised her, though, by telling Paul he would consider staying on at the house for a bit longer. And, oh, if her heart hadn’t leapt at that!

Just maybe Paul’s words will burrow down into Michael’s heart.
Lillianne trusted so.

Amelia was happy to wait as Joanna went to a nearby room to get the piecework to show her. Moving to stand at the open window, Amelia looked out at the patchwork field patterns that stretched as far as her eyes could see. Enjoying the tranquility all around her, she remembered Michael’s request and lifted her eyes to the blue of the sky, spotted with clouds like cotton puffs.
Please help my new friend, Lord,
she prayed briefly.

Yet Michael was counting on a heartfelt prayer, not merely doing lip service. Lowering herself onto the cane chair again, Amelia bowed her head and folded her hands reverently as she pictured Michael sitting at the table in his Amish mother’s kitchen. She prayed more earnestly now, trusting God that all would go well for Michael and his family.

A
clip-clop
ping from outside led her to glance toward the window—a horse-drawn buggy was coming down the road. She rose and watched curiously. The speed of the trotting horse brought the carriage closer more quickly than she had anticipated. Now she was peering down at a young Amish couple with a babe in arms and four small children sitting in back. Two little girls leaned their chubby arms out, looking very happy on this laid-back day.