The Thorn (4 page)

"Sure," Nick said, pausing. "I'll help ya."

"All right, then. We'll get started just after dawn." Dat glanced over at Rose before he slipped out the barn door.

Rose sat down in the fresh straw, still thinking about Christian's rash remarks. Why had the bishop called a family meeting? She was curious, even though it wasn't any of her business.

"S'pose you heard what Christian said earlier," Nick said, coming her way.

She nodded, wondering if she ought to say what she was thinking - that it might be best not to pay any mind to what his brother said.

"Christian? Puh! They should've named him Cain," Nick added. Then he said more softly, "Or Aaron, after his father."

Rose looked at him. "Bishop Aaron's your father, too."

Nick wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He stood there, looking dejected, his mouth in a thin, straight line. "Verna and the twins and their husbands and kids are all comin' over tonight," he muttered.

"What for?"

"Same as last week, prob'ly." He stopped abruptly, his ruddy face streaked with a line of dirt on one cheek. "They think it's time for me to join church."

Just then, Hen opened the barn door. Sunlight poured in like a brilliant waterfall. "We're heading for home now, Rosie."

Before saying good-bye to her sister, Rose turned to Nick. "I'll come over and see the bishop's grandchildren later on."

Nick gave a slight wave. "Bring a jar to catch lightning bugs."

She smiled at him, then watched her sister get into the car, wave, and back away, down to the road. And all the while she realized how sad she still felt, for having missed out on seeing Hen as a bride on her wedding day. How could she have denied me that? Rose thought. How, when we were such close sisters?

Solomon Kauffman finished power-sanding the smooth planks of pine to create the bottom and sides for the new bench wagon. He was mighty glad his bishop allowed compressed air to run his woodworking tools. He ran his callused hand down the fragrant lengths, relishing the light flouring of sawdust on them.

The door to the shop opened, and Bishop Aaron stepped in. "Got a minute, Sol?"

"Sure do." Anything for the bishop. He wiped his hands on his coarse work apron. "What can I do for ya?"

The bishop's eyes were sunken, like he hadn't slept much last night. "Ravin' more troubles with Nick." He stroked the length of his brown beard. " 'Tween you and me, I found some empty beer bottles back behind the barn."

Solomon held his breath, then said, "Again?"

"Nick's either in with a bad crowd, or he's doin' the drinking on his own."

"Have ya talked to him again 'bout church baptism?"

"Barbara and I have said all we can." The bishop removed his straw hat and stood there looking mighty helpless. "Don't know what more to do." He drew a long, labored sigh. "Unless the Lord gets ahold of him - or one of the district girls catches his eye - I'm afraid we'll lose Nick to the world altogether."

Solomon was sorry to hear it. And he was worried, too, because he knew Rose Ann had befriended the sometimes surly young man. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

"Doubt it, really."

Sol knew, as with his own daughter Hen, once the world grips a person, they rarely come back. An enemy of God ...

"Well, it's obviously too late this year, but by a year from now, I'd sure like to see him make the kneeling vow," the bishop said. "I'll keep workin' toward that end."

For that to happen, Nick would have to start attending baptismal instruction classes with the bishop next summer. "Ach, growin' up in your house ... surely Nick's overheard plenty of the teaching for the baptismal candidates. If ya don't mind my suggesting it, what if you made an exception and did some one-on-one training with him right away?"

The bishop eyed Sol. "That could work, I s'pose." He nodded his head. "Might get him committed to the idea, anyhow."

"You don't think he'd just up and run off, do ya?"

Bishop frowned and glanced back at the door. "Hard to say with that one. He's all filled up with a contentious spirit."

Something inside Solomon gripped him. "He won't influence Christian against the church, will he?"

"It's difficult to know what Nick's capable of." The bishop went on to tell about the family meeting they'd had last week. "We've got another tonight. Verna's husband, Levi, is trying to take Nick under his wing, but that's proving to be mighty hard when the boy's keener on the world than God."

Solomon's sons - all of them - had followed the Lord in holy baptism early on, settling down with their sweethearts right away. Hen, though, had caused enough chaos to make up for all of her compliant and upstanding brothers put together. "I'll keep you in prayer." Sol's throat constricted with the memories of his rebellious daughter.

"Denki, Solomon ... mighty kind of you."

"The Lord knows what it'll take. You can trust in that." It felt odd counseling the man of God this way, but it was all Solomon knew to say.

He thought back to Rose Ann's own baptismal instruction and was happy she had decided to forgo a typical Rumschpringe to join church at age fifteen. That way, when the time came, she could only date Amish fellows, and her promise to God would keep Rose safely in the fold. He'd encouraged his youngest to become a member mighty young ... for dear Emma's sake. Emma had been afraid she might pass on before she could witness Rose's baptism. And everything, after all, hinged on his wife's frail health. Just everything.

The bishop sighed, his expression dreary. "The ministerial brethren are all doin' whatever they can, trying to keep Nick in the church."

"I'm sure you've warned him 'bout touching or tasting the unclean things of the world, jah?" said Sol.

"Oh goodness, have we ever, and you can see what good that's done. Poor Barbara. .. sometimes I believe all this is goin' to break her health," the bishop admitted. "I'd hate to see that."

Thinking again of Hen, Sol offered, "Well, our wayward daughter's startin' to show interest in us once again ... if that's any encouragement."

The bishop nodded and looked away, as if struggling to maintain his composure. "We're nowhere near that with Nick, I daresay."

"Does he show you and Barbara any respect?"

"Most of the time -'least outwardly."

Sol felt for the man. "Don't give up on him."

"No intention of that. My very calling in the community depends on getting Nick settled down."

Sol understood the bishop could soon be under serious scrutiny from the other ministers if he didn't get Nick into the church, and soon. Having a rebellious son - even a foster one - called his qualifications for bishop into question, even though he'd drawn the divine lot for the office as a younger preacher than most, some fifteen years ago.

"Da Herr sei mit du - the Lord be with you," Solomon said as the bishop headed for the door.

"And with you," Aaron replied.

Solomon watched silently as his neighbor - and good friend - left.

Rose waved at the bishop, who was trudging across the field toward his house as she went to check the mailbox. While strolling down the driveway, she heard two buggies already turning into the bishop's long lane. Oh, she could hardly wait to go over and enjoy the merriment, as well as the scary stories the children liked to tell.

The sun was falling behind the eastern hills as she walked back toward the house with the mail. She noticed a letter addressed to her, but the handwriting was unfamiliar. Once inside, she placed the rest of the mail on the kitchen table next to Mamm, who was having dessert with her mother, as well as some peppermint tea to ease her congestion.

Without saying a word to either of them, Rose dashed upstairs to the stillness of her room and sat on the bed. She opened the letter and glanced at the bottom of the page. There was Silas Good's name.

Dear Rose Ann,

It's been months since I've seen you at Singings or other youth gatherings. Your grandfather seems to be getting better here lately, coming again to Preaching and all. My family and I pray for him - and your mother, too - each day.

I know it's been a long while since we've talked. But would you consider meeting me this Saturday at dusk, up Salem Road - remember the spot near the thicket of oak trees?

If it's possible, let me know. Otherwise, if you're not there by about eight o'clock, I'll just assume you're not coming. But I hope you will. I'd sure like to see you again, Rose Ann.

Your friend, Silas Good

Rose was amazed - and elated, considering this strange turn of events. Hadn't she hoped, even prayed that Silas still cared for her?

Recalling his warm glances before and after Preaching the past year, her heart beat faster. "He hasn't forgotten me after all," she whispered, clasping the letter to her.

She spun around and smiled into her dresser mirror, still holding the letter. To think he'd written to her when so many pretty girls might've caught his eye by now. Oh, she hoped Mamm's cold would be better enough by then that she might be free to meet him. She didn't dare to just slip away. It was one thing to go on a spur-of-the-moment ride with Nick and quite another to plan an evening out with a potential beau like Silas. And she didn't want to let Silas down.

Placing the letter in her hankie drawer, she turned to look out the window and saw the bishop's grandchildren playing on the front lawn next door. Over several decades, the soaring maple trees - silver, black, and sugar - and well-established pin oaks and sycamores had steadily suffused the Petersheims' front and side lawns, creating a shadowy world beneath. She hurried down the stairs and saw Mamm nicely settled yet with Mammi Sylvia, the two of them nibbling sugar cookies. A new pot of coffee - Mammi Sylvia's weakness - had been put on to boil. No doubt she'd added a few eggshells to take out the bitterness as she liked to do.

Rose slipped out the back door, carrying an empty jar. She headed across the grazing land that bordered the bishop's property. Right away she saw several of the school-age boys bunched up near one ancient tree out back, while the younger boys whittled near the woodshed. The girls played more quietly, staying close to the screened-in porch. Some of them had their little cloth dolls and handmade blankets.

She enjoyed the mingled sound of their play. And as she strolled along, dusk began to fall. Just that quick, the children were drawn to each other, like a flock of birds toward the sky. When they saw her, they shouted, "Come on, Rose!" encouraging her to chase and catch fireflies with them, their laughter clear and true.

After a time, they began to settle onto the back steps to take turns telling stories, each one trying to outdo the other with farfetched or frightening tales. This evening was no exception. Most every story included some superstition about the dark, rocky ravine that ran below Bridle Path Lane over yonder ... of disappearances and mysterious sounds in the night. So many superstitions had sprung up after Mamm's near-fatal accident. Despite all of that, Rose shivered with delight at the telling.

She heard the crack of a twig and glimpsed Nick's shadow near the side of the house - she knew what he was fixing to do.

Nick reached the farthest end of the porch, pausing there, still as a tree trunk. Then he jumped out and shouted, "Boo!"

The children's terrified yet merry screams rose straight to the sky. Nick clapped his hands, his laughter ringing across the paddock as he swung one child, then another, around and around. He'd pulled pranks like this before, and the children were always gleefully surprised.

He stayed around, squatting on the top step and listening as the stories took a more ominous turn. The story being told now was of a recent flood that had washed out and destroyed the historic Jackson's Sawmill Covered Bridge not far from there. "Weeks afterward, live frogs and dead fish were found in Gilbert Browning's house, right there near Octoraro Creek," the tallest boy said.

Rose stifled a laugh. While it was common knowledge that last year's flood had washed the old bridge off its moorings and flooded several houses, too, she couldn't envision how this child knew anything about the interior of Gilbert Browning's abode. The eccentric man rarely let in any outsiders except Lucy Petersheim, who'd quit working there several weeks ago. That was how Rose came to be hired in her place, to cook a variety of meals for the week, as well as clean the kitchen and wash up a small mountain of dishes. Since he was a widower, there was surprisingly little to keep tidy. As meagerly furnished as the main floor was, Mr. Browning's house could've easily passed for Amish.