Rebecca's Return (28 page)

Amos grinned. “Nah, I had my chance, but—you know—it didn’t suit.”

“There’ll be someone for you,” Reuben said. “Just don’t get too old. Youth only comes once.”

“That’s what Dad says, but I’m not that old. Luke waited awhile too, didn’t he?”

“I suppose so,” Reuben allowed. “Wanting to be sure, I guess.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Amos said quickly. “It’s just that…” He held the shafts of the buggy as Reuben lead the horse forward.

“Little young?” Reuben guessed, then remembered his deacon responsibilities, “Behave yourself.”

“I always do,” Amos said, which Reuben knew was the truth or close to it. Amos’s family caused little trouble in the church. Reuben couldn’t remember when the last time was he had stopped in at the Troyer residence on Saturday afternoon.

“Just keep it that way,” Reuben said, remembering that pride was the biggest pitfall a man or woman could fall into.

Leading his horse toward the barn, his worse fears were realized. Bishop Mose was coming out of the barn, taking his place in the line, greeting several of the men closest to him. Ezra Miller came out just behind the bishop. Reuben was sure he saw a smug look on his face.

There was nothing to be done. The matter would just have to run its course. Trying to talk to Bishop Mose now would only create a scene and accomplish nothing. It would be better to face the bishop in the minister’s gathering once church had started.

Composing himself, Reuben tied his horse and waited a few minutes to see if any bad feelings would develop between the horses. When everything remained quiet, the horses occupying themselves with reaching for scraps of hay, Reuben left.

There was still time to greet a few of the men before they began moving toward the house. Bishop Mose led the way. Someone motioned for Reuben to take his proper place. Speeding up his steps, he did so, slipping in behind Manny Coblentz, a visiting minister from one of the other districts.

Moving in the line, Reuben hung his head, signifying his humility and his reliance on God, while accepting this exalted place of leadership among brethren. Filing in, the men took their places on the hard, backless benches, the women doing the same on the other side of the house. Following that, the young folks came.

When all were seated, the first song number was given out, and the service began. At the start of the second line of the song, Bishop Mose got to his feet and moved toward the stairs, where the minister’s morning meeting was to be held. He paused momentarily to receive a whisper from Ben Byler. Ben was telling the bishop exactly which upstairs bedroom to use. Otherwise the entourage might be led into a bedroom containing sleeping young babies.

Reuben kept his steps as soft as possible, climbing the stairs with the others, a long line of men in straight-cut black dress suits. Once in the bedroom, chairs scraped on the hardwood floor, as the bishop took the first seat. Reuben, the last one through the door, closed it softly behind him.

“It’s good to have Manny with us.” The bishop nodded in Manny’s direction, before Reuben barely got seated. “He’ll be working hard for us today.” A murmur of laughter went around the circle, as they all knew what that meant.

Manny squirmed on his chair but said nothing. What was there to say? Custom was custom, and he had run the risk by visiting that day. Any visiting minister was subject to being assigned to preaching the main sermon, an hour long affair without notes or a Bible to read from.

“We shouldn’t have too much to talk about this morning,” the bishop continued, the low sound of the singing downstairs rising around them. “Everyone’s behaving themselves, I think.” This produced smiles around the circle, especially Reuben who was feeling better the longer the bishop talked. Maybe Ezra hadn’t done too much damage.

“Our Scriptures are Matthew five and Luke eleven,” the bishop continued, for the benefit of anyone who had forgotten the announcement two weeks earlier and for Manny, who hadn’t been there.

“Easy enough to preach out of—plenty of material—it’s good to be reminded of.” Mose paused as if thinking. “Maybe Reuben can tell us what he found out from Saturday’s work. He had two things to look into, I think.”

Reuben cleared his throat, deciding quickly it was best to play it straight. With that decision behind him, he mentioned Amman Yoder’s hospital bill of a possible ten thousand dollars.

Then because he was feeling better, he brought up the issue of paying for Mexico medical expenses. “About this going to Mexico. Amman said Nancy might—if things got worse—want to go to Mexico for treatment not given in the States. Is questionable treatment something that should be paid for by church help?”

It all just kind of came out in a gush, surprising even Reuben. He knew it was a bold question, but surely it was safe here to say such things.

“Well,” Mose said, sitting back in his chair, “I guess if you’re sick—if someone can make you better—why complain?”

“It usually doesn’t though,” Reuben said before anyone else could comment. “It’s usually wasted money.”

“I see our deacon has opinions.” Mose smiled, not looking too irritated. “Maybe he has gotten too close to the situation.”

“Or not close enough,” someone else said, at which they all chuckled again.

“We better just leave that one alone,” the bishop concluded. “There was something else, wasn’t there?”

“Steve Miller,” Reuben said, not feeling like giving any more details. If Mose wanted more, he could ask. “He was very easy to work with—as we expected.”

“I thought so,” Mose said, seeming satisfied. “The issue is concluded then?”

“I think so,” Reuben answered, nodding his head.

Mose was silent, as if waiting.

After a minute of silence, Reuben decided he had better say it. “I stopped in at Ezra Miller’s too. He—”

Mose cut him off with a raised hand. “I know. He talked to me this morning. Rachel wouldn’t have had something to do with this?”

What was there to say? He would have to admit this. “Yes,” he said, knowing no one else around them had a clue what Mose and he were talking about. But it was not his place to explain.

“I see,” Mose said. “She saw him?”

“Yes,” Reuben said again.

“Well, we’d better leave family out of this, I think.” Mose nodded his head to his own conclusions. “That would be best. Things get sticky with family in such matters, and so we’ll just leave it. Ezra said he’d be more careful in the future.”

Reuben nodded, thankful the rebuke wasn’t any worse. Mose was letting him down easy, and he resolved right then and there this wouldn’t happen again.

The others, who still had no clue what was being talked about, decided to leave the matter too, as the bishop moved on to other subjects. Fifteen minutes later, they all filed downstairs again. The singing stopped by the time they found their seats.

Reuben, who had no assigned part in the service that day, sat thinking about what he would tell Rachel on the way home. He would be nice to her, he decided, because Mose had been nice to him. That way no harm would be done, the matter would be behind them, and they could go on with their lives like before, but there would be no more Saturday projects from her.

Church dismissed by ten after twelve, and the noon meal was served soon after that. Around one thirty, Reuben got his horse out, hitched it to the buggy, and picked Rachel up at the end of the sidewalk.

Reuben got right to the point. “Mose didn’t like what I did on Saturday.”

There was no need to tell Rachel what that was. She already knew.

“He didn’t like it?” She turned toward him, shock in her voice.

“He said family shouldn’t be involved in things like this. It gets sticky. Ezra talked to Mose, I guess,” he said, checking both ways for traffic, then letting out the reins when no vehicles were coming down the road.

Reuben took a closer look at Rachel’s face once they had made the turn and the old driving horse was moving along well. He thought he had figured out why Rachel had wanted him to go to Ezra on Saturday, but the look in Rachel’s eyes caught him by surprise. He read fear and hopelessness, emotions that didn’t seem associated with the conclusion he had arrived at.

“So why did you want me to go?” he asked her.

There was only silence, her bonnet no longer allowing him a clear look at her face.

“I figured it might help,” she finally said.

“Help what?” he asked.

She said nothing, not moving on her side of the buggy.

He thought about asking again, but then remembered what Mose had said about letting this one go. That was for the best, he decided. No serious harm had been done yet.

“You feeling okay with the baby?” he asked instead. “When’s it due?”

“It’ll come when it’s ready. Not for a while…but soon enough,” Rachel said.

Reuben let that subject go too, slapping the old driving horse’s reins, urging him home.

“Emma was to see the heart doctor this week,” Rachel said, her voice low. “Martha Kemp said so.”

“That’s too bad,” Reuben said. “Anything serious?”

Rachel didn’t answer.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FIVE

A
t church, west of Wheat Ridge, Rebecca received no news on John’s condition. She half expected someone to whisper an update while she worked her way along the line of women that morning. She greeted them, one by one, including Amanda Troyer, who had come on the van load Friday. At first John’s mother seemed not to be in the room, but once the line of girls and women filed into the living room for the start of the service, Rebecca saw Miriam ahead of her, but there was no chance to talk.

The lack of news, she assumed, was good because bad news would have been brought straight to her by Miriam or John’s aunt Esther. After the ministers left for their meeting upstairs, the singing settled into its slow and normal routine. In the middle of the third song, the bishop’s black dress shoes came into view on the stairs as he reentered the room with Isaac Miller close behind.

Rebecca wondered at their quick return. They had been away a mere forty-five minutes, according to the clock on the far living room wall. The lead singer led out for two more lines and then stopped at the end of the stanza.

Bishop Martin had the opening sermon, followed by Isaac with the main message. Rebecca found herself paying close attention to Isaac’s sermon. She watched his eyes as they moved across the room, listened to his words, and finally realized she was checking to see if the gentleness she had seen yesterday was still there. It seemed important to know if what she had seen was just a passing thing, or was Isaac always like that?

Although an Amish minister hardly ever announced what his topic was, Rebecca picked up on a thread of a topic along the lines of forgiveness. Isaac said that Jesus was calling us all to forgive those who trespass against us, no matter how great that trespass was. As he spoke, she watched his gentle eyes. She realized that, yes, this was Isaac’s nature. It almost seemed as if tears weren’t far from his cheeks and his voice was disrupted by a slight catch.

Isaac said that the evil in the world was bound to affect all our lives. He said we are all called as children of God to forgive the person who did the evil, knowing that he needed God as much as we ourselves do. He said this was what it meant to forgive—to grant others the same mercy we had received ourselves.

Rebecca wondered if John would have those same tender eyes when he grew older. Would they have that special softness? She found herself remembering John’s eyes, right there in the middle of the sermon. They did have a little of his father’s gentleness, but they also had a hardness, a lurking storm, like the one that erupted in front of her house on Friday evening.

Was she supposed to forgive and forget all of that? Isaac wasn’t saying anything about forgetting evil, but she wondered if that wasn’t part of it. Could she just forget what had happened on Friday night? It seemed a strange and terrible thing to be asking of herself.

She turned her attention back to Isaac’s sermon. He was telling the story of the Pharisee and the publican who went up to pray together in the temple. The Pharisee, who thought of himself as a good man, removed himself to his own corner lest he be contaminated by his corrupt fellow men. There he began to name his virtues to God. The publican, on the other hand, just stood with all the rest of the people, beating his chest and begging God for mercy.

“Now we all know the story,” Isaac said, “but we must also live the story. It’s not the Pharisee who went home that night right with God, but the publican. Oh, how heavy it lays on us to learn the lesson. How easy it is for us to become proud in our own virtues. How easy it is for us to tell God how good we are. Yet what we need to do is beat our chest.” Here Isaac thumped his chest lightly for emphasis. “We need to ask God for the same mercy everyone needs.”

Rebecca listened, but she was really looking at his eyes again. She wanted to know if the hard eyes of the son had come from the father. Half expecting to find anger, she felt a tear slip down her face at the sight before her.