Wonderful Lonesome Page 5

  “Daed?”

  He looked up.

  “Is it all right if I take the buggy? I want to check on Eber and see if Ruthanna needs anything.”

  “That is fine, daughter. I am sure God is pleased at how you are caring for your friend. You make sure they are following the doctor’s instructions.”

  “I will.” Slowly, she reached to remove a harness from the wall. “Are you getting ready to plant again?”

  He resumed the rhythm of lifting and sifting seed.

  “Daed?”

  “This seed is the most valuable thing I have. Our family’s future depends on the decision I make.”

  “It’s not too late. Others are planting again now.”

  Ananias Weaver lifted his head and looked at his daughter full on. “It is difficult to discern whether that is foolishness or faith.”

  “If we don’t plant, we won’t have a crop.”

  “And if I cannot irrigate sufficiently, and we don’t get rain, we will have wasted a valuable resource.”

  Abbie moistened her lips. For all of her childhood, her father had held closely any hint of difficulty in the family’s finances from year to year or the reasons for his decisions. But she was no longer a child. She was of an age where she could have married and remained in Ohio. Abbie had chosen to move to the new settlement as an adult. At the time, she thought she knew the risks. They all did. No one could have foreseen the difficulty they would face in the quest to root an Amish congregation in the unyielding Colorado plain.

  “Take the dark mare, please,” Ananias said. “She hasn’t been out of the pasture for several days. I don’t need a horse that becomes accustomed to idleness.”

  Willem Peters stabbed a pitchfork into the soiled hay in the end stall of the Gingerich barn. The stench assaulted his breath. Willem was well accustomed to the smells that came with housing and caring for animals, but this seemed extreme. He could not help but wonder how long it had been since Eber felt well enough to adequately muck stalls. The doctor Abbie had fetched from Limon three days ago was clear that Eber needed complete rest for the next few weeks. Word of Eber’s decline had spread quickly through the Amish families, and the men soon enough volunteered for the outdoor work to keep the farm operating. Eber would have no crop again this year and had no seed to plant again, but his animals would be milked and fed and cleaned up.

  Rudy positioned a wheelbarrow as close to Willem as possible.

  “We should have come sooner,” Rudy said.

  “Ya.” Willem emptied the fork into the wheelbarrow and attacked the stall with the implement again. “Eber doesn’t like to ask for help.”

  “He should know that pride is a sin.”

  “He only wants to know he can take care of his family. You and I are not married men. We don’t know what that responsibility must feel like.”

  “I guess not.” Rudy picked up a shovel and began to work alongside Willem. “Why have you not married?”

  Willem shrugged. “Perhaps I feel as Eber does—I want to feel sure I can provide.”

  “So you are waiting for the right time?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Not the right girl?”

  “Of course I want the right girl.”

  “But haven’t you found her?”

  Willem eyed Rudy in his peripheral vision. “Do you mean Abigail Weaver?”

  “No man could ask for a finer wife. Lovely in appearance, loyal in spirit, unafraid of hardship, devoted to the church.”

  Willem diverted his gaze now. “You seem to have given a lot of thought to Abigail.”

  “I am merely an observant man. I have not yet drawn a conclusion about the extent of her patience.” Rudy dropped his shovel and gripped the handles of the wheelbarrow again. It was full enough to take out and dump in a place where the manure could do some good.

  Willem watched as Rudy navigated down the short length of the barn and turned out of sight at the open door. He stood the pitchfork straight up and leaned on it, wishing Rudy would just say what was on his mind. What did he mean about Abbie’s patience?

  Willem heard a buggy clatter to a stop outside the barn and abandoned his task to see who had arrived. Abbie Weaver descended from the driving bench and leaned her head attentively toward Rudy.

  A week later, Ruthanna worked as quietly as she could along the one wall of the cabin that she called her kitchen. It was a far cry from the sprawling kitchen of the home she grew up in and that she had always imagined her own kitchen would be like.

  She would have a kitchen someday. Ruthanna refused to believe that she and Eber would have anything less than what they dreamed of when they left Pennsylvania. After all, they had a baby on the way finally—and owned more land than they could have hoped for in Pennsylvania. If they had to live in a small cabin for a year or two longer than they expected, that was not too great a sacrifice.

  Ruthanna glanced toward the bedroom. If Eber were well, he would scowl at the thought of two men cleaning out his barn. He might even be displeased at the dishes of food that had been turning up in the hands of Amish visitors eager to be of some practical help during his illness. As it was, he did not question the origin of the food his wife offered to him at frequent intervals and ate very little before saying again that he wished to sleep.

  The doctor had been vague. Ruthanna was not persuaded he knew what was wrong with Eber. Prescribing complete rest and generous food was safe advice. Anyone could see Eber was exhausted and thin. Rest and food could not possibly hurt him, but was it enough to help? Ruthanna murmured prayers every time fear welled within her. Eber would get well. She would not let her mind dawdle over any other possibility.

  The knock at the door was soft, and Ruthanna knew it was Abbie before she turned to look. Abbie had heard the doctor’s instructions with her own ears. Each time she visited she kept her voice low and movements soft. The door opened and Abbie entered.

  “How are you?” Abbie touched Ruthanna’s cheek. “Are you taking care of yourself?”

  “I’m fine.” Ruthanna gestured to a chair for Abbie to sit in. “The men have been coming to do all the chores. I barely have to leave the house.”

  “Good. If Eber needs you, you want to be here.”

  Ruthanna nodded.

  From the bedroom came an insistent, deep-chested cough.

  “When did that start?” Abbie looked alarmed.

  “During the night.”

  “It sounds terrible.”

  “It is not constant. He has a fit every few hours. I think it is only the dust. I can’t seem to keep it out of the house.”

  “I will ask my mamm if there is something else you should be doing.”

  “Thank you.” Ruthanna swallowed. “I wish I could ask my own mamm.”

  “Have you written? I could mail a letter for you.”

  Ruthanna shook her head. “I don’t want to alarm anyone at home. By the time a letter reached Pennsylvania and my mamm could write back, Eber will be well.”

  “Levi asked me to tell you he is praying in his heart all day long.”

  A strained smile stretched Ruthanna’s lips, and she put her hand on her abdomen. “I hope my kinner is as sweet as Levi.”

  Abbie did not stay long at Ruthanna’s. She knew her friend well enough to know she needed to use nervous energy by keeping her hands busy and feeling that she was accomplishing something. While Eber slept, Ruthanna would sweep and scrub and mend and cook, and Abbie would not suggest she should do otherwise. Abbie chatted with Rudy and Willem while she served them cold water and cornbread, provisions sent by her mother. Something was odd between the two of them. Whatever it was, they would have to work it out. Abbie had more on her mind.

  Leaving Eber and Ruthanna’s farm on the main road, Abbie saw Albert and Mary Miller approaching. She reined in the mare as she came alongside them and could see that Mary held in her lap a dish wrapped in towels. The generosity that poured out of all the Amish neighbors nearly made Abbie’s chest
burst. They might not have a minister of their own or the twice-monthly worship services they all yearned for, but they could still be a church and care for each other.

  Little Abe peeked out from behind his mother and gave Abbie a grin. She grinned back. He lifted one bare foot for her inspection.

  Mary laughed. “We were talking about having the cobbler make him some shoes. We have a piece of leather he can use, but we have not had time to take Abe to be measured.”

  “Why don’t I take him?” Abbie said. “I could come by tomorrow and pick up Little Abe and the leather. I would be delighted to do it.”

  Mary glanced at her son. “He always loves spending time with you.”

  “Then please let me do this for you. I’ll come in the morning so I can have him home in plenty of time for his nap.”

  It all seemed so secretive, and Abbie did not understand why.

  She put her father’s breakfast plate in front of him and waited for his silent prayer before she asked, “What will the men be talking about this morning?”

  “Church matters, of course.” Ananias looked over his roundrimmed glasses at his daughter.

  Abbie poured coffee and pushed the mug toward him. “Are we going to get a minister?”

  “That is a question for God.” He bit into his toast.

  “We’ve been praying for a minister for years.” Perhaps it was time for God to answer the pleas of the believers.

  “In God’s time.”

  Abbie thought back to more than a year ago. Her father and a few other men gathered on a morning not so different from this one. Hot. Dry. Cloudless.

  But a bishop had been with them for that meeting. The men were behind closed doors for hours with Bishop Lehman. He had come from Kansas, which was not so far compared to Ohio or Pennsylvania. Even still, the bishop had not visited for months before that. Another minister, also from Kansas, had come to preach during a break in the February weather. By June of 1913, the twelve Amish families scattered around the outskirts of Limon ached for worship, for the discipline of hearing sermons, for the slow, careful harmonies of their hymns.

  For communion, the body and blood of the Lord.

  But the bishop cut his visit short without explanation. None but the handful of men on the church council knew the nature of the conversation that would cause him to leave abruptly without preaching and leading the communion service.

  And none of them would speak of it, not even to their wives. Abbie had heard enough whispers among the women to know that her ignorance of the circumstances had nothing to do with her age or marital status. The men simply would not speak. Not a word for over a year.

  “Maybe a minister would visit us again,” Abbie said now, “if we asked.”

  Why had the ministers stopped visiting the new settlement? The question rang in Abbie’s mind, though she dared not ask it aloud.

  Ananias cleared his throat. “Abigail, I can see that you are disturbed by your own curiosity. I will not satisfy it, so you may as well release it and put your energy into something needful.”

  Abbie turned around and set the coffeepot on the stove. Did her father think the women did not miss having church services? Did he believe them incapable of understanding whatever had sent the bishop away?

  This time all the men, even the unmarried ones, would attend the meeting. As her father finished his breakfast and put on his hat, Abbie cleaned the dishes with a minimum of water and pondered whether to ask Willem or Rudy later to tell her what happened.

  Sitting on the wooden stoop outside his cabin, Willem raised his eyes to the sun. He judged he had a good thirty minutes before he must leave for the meeting and raised his coffee to his lips. It was strong and black and bitter, and he relished the sensation of its thickness oozing down his throat. Before too many more hours, the day would be blistering and he would not want coffee. In this moment he could enjoy it as he gazed across his land and watched as shadows dissipated and the day came into crisp focus.

  Open on the step beside Willem was his mother’s latest letter. His brother was considering taking a job in an English factory to pay the bank what he owed on his farm. To finance new farm equipment, one of his cousins had sold a parcel of land that had been in the family for 150 years. Willem’s gut clenched at the thought of those enchanting rolling acres lost to the Peters family forever. His cousin had been threatening to sell for years and even offered the acres to Willem. But they would have made for a small farm with no good place to situate a house, and Willem wanted a large farm. He wanted plenty of earth to receive as his own, a gift from God. He wanted more than to eke out a living. His parents had taught him generosity from before he ever held a coin in his hand. Over the years since he became a man, Willem had come to see that generosity was a measure of the spirit and not of land or money. Nevertheless his heart swelled with yearning to give. If God blessed him with abundance, Willem would gladly give to all in need.

  Eber, for instance. Willem wished he could do something for Eber and Ruthanna. They deserved to know their child would have everything he needed.

  Willem took another gulp of coffee. He was not a man for meetings. Last year, when the church council met, Willem had no curiosity about their discussions. He was as surprised as everyone else that the bishop left without serving communion, but Willem never thought to ask about the meeting. Like all Amish men, when he was baptized, he agreed to serve as minister if he should ever be called on, but the possibility could not be further from his mind. Especially now. A minister would have to be ordained, and if they could not even get ministers to visit and preach every few months, it was unlikely a bishop would suddenly agree to ordain one of the men. Besides, Willem was not married. No one would think to nominate him to be minister.

  The coffee mug was empty now. The four men who made up the council had been firm that all men should attend this meeting, so Willem stood up, tucked in his shirt, raised his suspenders, and trudged to the barn for his horse.

  “I am sure the council will understand if you are not present for the meeting.” Ruthanna followed Eber around the cabin, hesitant about every unstable step he took. “They shouldn’t even have come out here to ask it of you.”

  “They asked all the men.” Eber leaned over to pick up a boot and sat in a chair to put it on. He turned his head to cough.

  “You are not well, Eber.” Ruthanna presented herself in front of him with hands on hips.

  “I have been in bed for weeks while other men do my work. I believe I can manage to sit upright for one meeting.”

  “Eber, you barely stay out of bed long enough to eat a meal at the table with me. You cannot even walk to the outhouse.”

  Ruthanna regretted pointing out this last reality.

  Eber’s eyes flashed at her. “Perhaps you can find it in yourself to leave me a small portion of my dignity.”

  “I’m sorry, Eber. You know I love you. I want you to be well. I want you to be strong. Then you can do all the things you want to do.”

  “Today I want to be strong enough to go to this meeting.” Eber laced his boot and tied it snugly.

  Ruthanna briefly considered blocking his view as he looked around for his second boot. He had not even had them on since the day she found him collapsed in the barn, yet he thought he was recovered enough to travel twenty miles and sit upright and awake. He did not know what the meeting was about. How could he be so sure he must be present? When Willem Peters delicately asked if Eber planned to go and Ruthanna immediately brushed away the impossible idea, Eber had announced his startling intention.

  She stepped across the room and fetched Eber’s other shoe. When she handed it to him, she said, “Why don’t you let me drive you? I’m sewing for the baby. I can take my things and find a bit of shade to wait for you. That way, if you tire, I can bring you home.”

  He eyed her briefly before returning his attention to his feet. “I will drive. But you may come.”

  “Do you promise to let me drive home? You’ll be ex
hausted by then.”

  Eber put his hand on his stomach and groaned. Ruthanna winced at the sound.

  “All right,” he said. “Bring some food. For the sake of the baby.”

  When Ruthanna carried food and a jug of water out to the buggy, she also took a quilt and a pillow. Even if Eber did not want to admit it, she knew he was going to need them.

  Rudy did not see the point.

  What could the men possibly have to talk about that would make a difference?

  Crops? As far as he knew, no one seriously believed there would be a harvest.

  A prayer meeting? Perhaps they intended to pray for the miracle of favorable weather. Rain to drench the fields and fill the water troughs. The stilling of the incessant wind. Clouds to protect their burnished faces from further assault. Such an effort would require more faith than Rudy could muster.

  News of a visiting minister? That hardly required a meeting of all the men. The council would have arranged that.

  A particular financial need? Rudy could not think what he had to share. Perhaps he would slaughter a cow to mercifully save it from starving to death and revive the long-forgotten taste of meat in everyone’s mouths.

  Whatever decision was to be made could be made without Rudy. He would go collect the morning’s eggs—oh, how he was tired of subsisting on eggs—and go back to bed for another hour. There was no point in going into the fields.

  The day’s yield was seventeen eggs. Rudy placed them in a tin bowl and shuffled back toward the house, turning only when he heard the sound of a horse and buggy.

  Willem Peters.

  “You’re a mess,” Willem said. “Have you even washed your face this morning?”

  “I’m not going.” Rudy reached for the door.