The Fiddler (24 page)

Best to just let things be,
he thought, quickening his pace on Hickory Lane.

When he arrived, Nate was sitting in the porch swing out front. Michael nodded and called, “
Gut
Lord’s Day to ya, Nate,” and was greeted with a mere nod.

Michael could tell by the driving horse parked outside that Joanna’s married sister Salina and her husband and three children were visiting. He didn’t have to ask if Amelia was around, since he saw her car parked off to the side of the driveway. And just about the time he was getting cold feet for being there, Rhoda Kurtz wandered out to the backyard and announced, “Amelia’s gone to play some music for Ella Mae.”

“Really, now?” he said, quite bemused.

“Jah, and on the Lord’s Day, too. Don’t that beat all?” Rhoda replied, pulling a slightly disagreeable face.

Amelia’s shaking things up,
Michael thought, thanking Rhoda. He walked across the north meadow, heading away from the treed area where he’d heard Amelia play Friday afternoon. As he strolled through Nate’s cornfield, he thanked God for help in bringing his confused niece this far. He prayed further, asking for divine guidance.

Pausing, he thought he heard the wind whistling through the cornstalks. But then, listening again, he realized the sound was a melody—the strains of a gospel song he’d heard as a boy. But it was not the slow, faltering rendition of “This Little Light of Mine” like he’d first heard it sung. No, this was a real foot-stomper.

Michael approached Ella Mae’s and saw Amelia playing her fiddle there on the back porch. The Wise Woman sat in the old rocking chair, her eyes closed, head back, enjoying herself like a cat napping in a sunbeam.

Once again, Michael was moved by Amelia’s playing.
Ella Mae’s not heeding the bishop’s wishes,
he thought, not too surprised. After all, the woman had lived life in recent years her way, although
“under the covering of God
,
”
as she liked to say. It was as if the church ordinance and what Bishop John Beiler felt strongly about mattered less to her than what the Lord God impressed upon her heart. Michael understood where she was coming from, but he found it interesting that the elderly woman got by with such things. Were the brethren lenient because she wasn’t long for this world?

Michael chuckled, seeing Ella Mae’s head bob a little, then pop up, eyes bright as the music wound down to the final note. Amelia ended with a big flourish, raising her bow clear over her head, and Ella Mae clapped her hands, all smiles.

Next thing, the elderly woman was herding Amelia inside the small house, which meant Michael should find something better to do than lurk there in the trees. Not knowing how long they’d be, he headed back toward the main road, surprised at how disappointed he was at not having the chance to talk to Amelia again—feeling left out, somehow.

———

Amelia stepped across the threshold into Ella Mae’s small, sun-drenched kitchen. The delightful woman promptly went to her gas-powered refrigerator and poured iced peppermint tea for both of them, then placed the cold tumblers on her table. Amelia looked about her, taking in the old coal stove in the cozy sitting area just off the kitchen, and the modern-looking ceiling fan above. The Kurtzes had one like it, and Joanna had explained it was powered by see-through tubes that carried air from an air compressor. A red, blue, and yellow afghan was folded over one arm of the overstuffed chair in the corner, and there was a large Bible in the nearby magazine rack.

Ella Mae placed a clear glass plate of chocolate-covered strawberries on the table. “Alas, one of my weaknesses,” Ella Mae whispered, her lips parting in a gentle smile. “As far as food goes, that is.” Her eyes sparkled as she pulled out a chair and slowly lowered herself to a sitting position, across from Amelia.

Ella Mae turned to point out her peach and pear trees through the window, as well as the rows of vegetables in a long strip of a garden in the sunniest part of the backyard. “My daughter Mattie, who lives next door with her husband, does most of the weeding and hoeing.”

“My grandma took her knee pad nearly everywhere she went,” said Amelia. “She often joked that she liked to edit things, particularly her gardens.”

“Oh, I know that feeling. The least little weed and it’s plucked right out!” Ella Mae smiled again as she looked at Amelia over her glasses, which had slipped down halfway to the end of her petite nose. “The way the Lord God prunes us at times.”

Amelia’s grandmother had also talked about spiritual pruning.
“Does your life magnify or minimize Christ?”
Her grandmother had asked it so often Amelia sometimes wondered if that was her favorite question.

“Weeds are easy to grow,” Ella Mae said, holding a chocolate strawberry and looking at it fondly. “But, ah, the fruit . . . now, that’s the best part, ain’t?”

“My grandmother used to say that it takes good seed to grow good fruit.”

“ ‘Such as the tree, so is the fruit.’ ” Ella Mae nodded, the strings from her prayer cap draped down over her slight shoulders. “And
my
grandmamma used to say, ever so long ago: ‘Now, Ella Mae, is today the day you will repent of the sins you’ve committed against the Lord?’ I would just look at her, frown, and duck my head. Of course, she was mighty
schmaert
, knowin’ I was battling God’s call to holy baptism an’ all.”

“Other than my parents, no one I know talks like this anymore,” Amelia said between sips of the delicious tea.

“Might be that it’s not an easy truth for folks to get comfortable with. But weeds have a way of coming up on their own. If allowed to grow, they’ll choke out the healthy
gut
growth . . . and, well, there goes any hope of fruit.”

“I think you and my grammy would’ve liked each other.”

“What a nice thing to say, Amelia. I daresay there’s quite a lot of your grandmother in you.”

Ella Mae was as tender a person as she’d ever met. “I think I’m going to miss being around here . . . visiting with you
,
” Amelia said, bowing her head. “And yet we’ve just met.”

“So you’re thinkin’ of leaving already?”

“I’d love to stay longer, believe me, but everything’s on the line back home. . . . I have some big decisions ahead of me.”

Ella Mae eyed her thoughtfully, working her jaw. “Aw, Amelia, you seem stressed about whatever’s goin’ through your mind just now.”

“You don’t know the half.”

Ella Mae reached across the table, her hands open. “Well, we’ve got today yet, don’t we?” She looked out the window, then turned back to Amelia, smiling. “Bishop John admonishes us to visit each other on Sundays when there’s no Preachin’ services. Sounds to me like we’re doin’ his bidding.” She glanced heavenward with a sigh. “And the dear Lord’s, too.”

No matter what Ella Mae said, her words were like honey—appealing and sweet. “I believe you’re right,” Amelia responded before settling back in the chair and drinking some more of her tea.

“What’s a-troublin’ you?” Ella Mae’s eyes looked deep into her.

Amelia hesitated, though she longed to release the floodgates and tell Ella Mae everything she kept bottled up inside.

“Or we can just sit here and breathe the fresh air . . . whatever suits ya.” Ella Mae leaned toward the open window, her Kapp strings rippling in the breeze. Beneath the white organdy of the head covering, Amelia could see the tight, low bun at the back of her head.

Amelia hoped she wasn’t about to go too far out on a limb. “Have you ever thought you had absolutely no choice—or say—in a particular matter?”

Ella Mae’s little eyes widened . . . such piercing, knowing eyes. “Well now, I wouldn’t be human if I hadn’t felt that way at one time or ’nother.”

Amelia considered that.

“Why do
you
feel trapped?” Ella Mae asked softly.

“When it comes to sharing my heart with my father, I always clam up—I spare him my feelings and opinions because he’s not well.”

Ella Mae blinked her eyes solicitously, not saying anything.

“It’s really frustrating, because I have no trouble helping my friends see their way out of situations similar to my own.” Amelia paused and thought of her counsel to Michael. “But when it comes to my own issues, do you think I can follow any of that same advice myself?” Her words fell to a whisper. “I really want to change the course of my life, Ella Mae . . . at least my immediate future.”

Ella Mae folded her hands. “And just what would that take, Amelia?”

She forged ahead. “What I’d really like to do could actually turn out to be the best thing—or the worst, depending on whose perspective we’re talking about.” Her stomach churned as she thought of her parents and of Stoney . . . and last, of Byron. Their order of importance.

“What we care most about in life determines what we end up doin’, ain’t so?” asked Ella Mae.

“But where does nerve come in? That’s my problem—I’ve lost any gumption.”

“The gumption, my dear, comes when you believe in your decision so much you simply have to follow your heart, come what may.” Ella Mae leaned forward on the table, her eyes fixed on Amelia. “And like I said when we talked Friday . . . if ya believe God’s nudging you in a certain direction, you best follow that, no ifs, ands, or buts.”

“Even though I want to respect my father’s wishes?”

This brought a long pause. “Well now, honoring our parents is expected, too.”

“Which puts me right back where I began.” Amelia forced a smile, laughing under her breath. “My thoughts travel in complete circles, and it’s making me dizzy.”

“I see what ya mean—’tis a knotty problem.” Ella Mae turned in her chair and pointed at the wall hanging on the other side of the room, a cross-stitched Zook family tree. “See the name at the very top there? That’s my husband’s great-grandfather, Jesse Zook. He passed down a mighty powerful proverb—wholeheartedly believed its meaning.” She stopped to catch her breath. “More than two hundred of his offspring all know the saying to this day.”

Amelia was curious about which favorite adage could ring true for an entire family for so long.

“ ‘Courage is fear on its knees,’ ” quoted Ella Mae, looking again at Amelia. “And that, my dear, might just be the answer to the pickle you’re in.”

The truth of the saying resonated so strongly, her eyes welled up. “I’ll remember this always,” Amelia managed to say. “Thank you, Ella Mae.”

Later, when she had taken her leave of the Wise Woman, Amelia wondered if God would indeed pave the way for her to talk openly with her father about her future, whatever she might decide.
Will He give me the courage, if I ask?

A
melia knew she should pack up her few things and bid farewell to Joanna and her parents . . . and to Michael. But following her morning visit to Ella Mae, she was once again pleasantly pulled into Joanna’s engaging company when she returned to find Joanna sitting in the pretty white gazebo in the side yard. She wore a beige scarf tied beneath her chin and was waving to Amelia, calling, “Come and join me, won’t ya?”

Settling into the little haven, the sound of birds all around, Amelia listened as Joanna told a couple of stories, one quaint and comical, the other more riveting. When Amelia asked if she’d written them down, Joanna opened a notebook and, very shyly, let her read one.

My own mother has never let me read her writings
, thought Amelia
.
The realization struck her as she read, immediately captivated by Joanna’s compelling story.

“You write very convincingly about love,” Amelia complimented her when she’d finished. The story had made her feel almost wistful and even a bit envious of the depth of emotion and connection the characters so naturally displayed. “Does it come from firsthand experience?”

Joanna’s cheeks turned rosy as she reached for the notebook. “Not everything in a story comes from a writer’s life, ya know.” She gave Amelia a look. “And anyway, haven’t ya ever been in love yourself? You have a beau of your own, right?”

Amelia gave a nod. “I do . . . although both of us are so busy with our careers, we don’t see each other that often. But we have talked about a future together. He’s a musician, too,” she added.

Joanna eyed her curiously. “If ya don’t mind me sayin’ so, you don’t seem very happy ’bout that.”

“Guess you’re right,” Amelia admitted after a moment’s pause. “It’s complicated—I’m not sure I really understand why myself. Maybe it’s just that I’m feeling a lot of career pressure from him right now. It seems to be coming from every corner.”

Joanna’s fingers traced the edges of her notebook. “So do ya love him?”

“Maybe. I mean, I thought so, but lately I’ve been less certain.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Yet really, who would want to marry someone they didn’t love?”

“Well, I know plenty who marry ’cause it’s the right thing—the young couple work well together, or the parents are pleased about the union.”

“What about love—where’s that in the equation?”

“If it’s not present at the start, it might just come in due time—or so the womenfolk sometimes say.”