The Fiddler (8 page)

Lillianne rose after midnight, glad for the steady rain—
“gut
for the crops,” she muttered as she padded down the stairs to the kitchen. She poured a half glass of milk, fresh from the cow just yesterday.

Yesterday . . .

She recalled the zeal-turned-anger on her husband’s part. Paul was sometimes known for his swift temper, in a near-constant battle to curtail it. Her sleep this night had been disturbed by unsettling dreams of Michael . . . gone.
Where?

She ran her fingers through her waist-length hair, wishing she might braid it for sleeping, like Old Order Mennonite women sometimes did. But such things were mere wishes here in Hickory Hollow. More important was Michael’s leaving. There was no doubt in Lillianne’s mind that he was in need of paternal nudging as opposed to a firm hand. Even Bishop John must’ve thought so, stopping by last evening to talk straight to poor Paul.

Lillianne inhaled slowly and went to sit in her mealtime spot at the table, feeling ever so tense. She’d heard tell from Rhoda Kurtz, Joanna’s mother, that Michael’s former sweetheart was getting along with her studies and hoped to go to Uganda as a missionary in due time. And that Marissa had been the one to break things off with Michael last January.

No wonder his heart is all torn apart.

What could
she
do to help her son? Especially now that he’d fled? Lillianne didn’t entirely blame Paul for running him off, but she knew in her heart of hearts that Michael would be sound asleep under his father’s roof this very moment if Paul hadn’t hollered out his ultimatum. Michael never would’ve up and gone away otherwise. Now it was much too late to retract all that.

Still, maybe what had happened was for the best. Maybe their
ferhoodled
boy would finally make the right choice and agree to follow the Lord as his kinfolk had done, clear back to their immigration here. Their Swiss ancestors had longed so dearly for the freedom to worship the Lord God and live Plain lives here in Penn’s Woods.

Or, come to think of it, it was very possible Paul’s aggravation would only push Michael to flee to the English world, just as their son’s present leanings seemed to indicate. Truly, Lillianne feared what Michael might do. Oh, had her husband pushed him to the brink?

There were always a handful of youth in any given church district who struggled to make the decision to “stay in the faith.” Some even felt coerced into making the permanent vow. Not many, but when it came to teenagers and church baptism, there were some parents who were unbending. The wiser ones—like Lillianne’s own—permitted their children to experience
Rumschpringe
for as long as necessary, encouraging them to make their lifelong decision with joy and devotion. And entirely on their own, lest they join too early and regret it later in life. She knew firsthand that some parents lamented the day their grown children had ever knelt for holy baptism, only to change their minds later.

Through the years, Lillianne had noticed that thoughtful words worked far better with Michael than any spoken too quickly. She had always read this son like a book!

To his credit, Michael had proven to be financially self-sufficient since he was grown and had willingly given a good portion of his earnings to his father for room and board. He had earned his keep working as a draftsman. But to a harness maker like Paul, their son’s aspirations pointed squarely toward a modern life-style.

She recalled what a good little Amish boy Michael had been, sitting so still next to Paul on Preaching Sundays, over with the menfolk. He was as obedient as the day was long. The early years he’d worked as a hired hand for Nate Kurtz were good ones, too. But his latter teen years till now had taken a toll, particularly his going after higher education and Michael’s work as a draftsman, where he rubbed shoulders with Englischers each and every day. The world had pressed in and all but snatched him away.

May this phase soon pass, O Lord.

She peered at the darkness outside, unable to see the rain, though she heard its persistent patter against the windowpane. She finished drinking the milk, remembering all the nights she and Michael had happened upon each other right here, pouring a glass of cold milk and eating a cookie or two. As recent as a few weeks ago, she’d found him listening to music on his radio—both forbidden. Alas, she, too, was drawn to the lively fiddle music. She’d never think of revealing the times she’d crept into Michael’s room when he was away at work and listened to his battery-powered radio. Not to her husband, and certainly not to Michael, for fear he’d misunderstand and think she was condoning his defiance. Truth was, she and her youngest seemed to gravitate to the large, empty kitchen while the house slept, better able to converse at such a late hour.

Lillianne sighed again, wishing there were some way to roll back the events of yesterday and let Michael know he was sorely missed. And dearly loved.

O Lord, please look after my son.

Michael stared into the darkness after praying longer than usual.
What guy wouldn’t give his eyeteeth to get to know a pretty country fiddler like Amy Lee!
He felt anew a sting of guilt for spending so much time with her alone in the secluded cabin.

Even so, he justified that in his mind. After all, she’d arrived soaking wet and clearly needing shelter. And then if they hadn’t talked nearly like old friends from the moment she arrived! Yet, despite their unusual affinity, the thing that was most appealing was her trust in him. Considering the peculiar, even awkward circumstances, it surprised him. No, it shook him up. He’d never expected such a thing to happen. Not to him, of all people.

Never in a million months of Sundays . . .

A
melia awakened with a start Friday morning. Stretching, she managed to get her bearings.
Ah yes.
She remembered the storm last night and the unfinished chess game. . . .

She strained to hear any activity in the small cabin, but all was silent. Out the window, the sky was clearing in the east, although still mostly overcast. Nearby, birds were chirping happily. “I crave sunshine,” she whispered, getting out of bed. She’d had it with the gloom and the rain. It added fuel to her dismal mood—and her sheer frustration at feeling so helpless. But then, Amelia was often a little out of sorts upon waking, or so her father had pointed out to her back when she was juggling violin practice with her private school or traveling tutor.
Very little time for anything but music,
she recalled now, having felt somewhat isolated at the time. Her best friends were her parents and her instructor . . . and a handful of school chums. Beyond that, there was really no one she’d confided in. Not even Byron Salter knew her heart.

Pondering all of that, she made her way to the small bathroom to wash up and dress for the day. Though bleary-eyed, she couldn’t miss seeing the speckle of whiskers in the sink. She wondered why Michael would bother to shave.
Why . . . up here in the boonies?

Glad for some fresh clothes from her bag, she dressed quickly and then ventured over to the screen door. She spotted Michael at the end of the dirt lane, crouched beside her jacked-up vehicle.
So that’s where he went
.

What if there’s something wrong with the spare?
she thought suddenly, holding her breath.
Would that be so bad?

Chiding herself, she shook off the ridiculous thoughts.

As she turned away from the door, she had an impulsive idea. What better way to show her gratitude than to cook a nice hot breakfast? Years ago, her dark-haired mother had taught her to break an egg without getting shells into the yolk. In her recollection, she still heard the sound of her father practicing his violin in the background as Mom mixed onion and a little milk into the eggs. Everywhere, classical music was woven into the embroidery of her childhood. Every scene, every home activity . . . it was always, always there.

Presently, while Amelia looked for the eggs, bacon, and bread for toast in the tiny kitchen, she was once again aware of a deep sense of frustration born of the very real prospect of a European tour in her immediate future. And certainly by now she must have numerous voicemail and text messages from Stoney on the subject, and from Byron, as well. It wasn’t right to keep Byron—or her parents—in the dark about her location. She needed to contact them as soon as possible
.

If only pay phones weren’t nearly extinct. Everyone owned a cell phone now—even Michael
,
she recalled, seeing him coming this way, through the trees, his face beaming.

Quickly, she opened the cupboard, where she discovered cereal and oatmeal and looked for a box of uncooked rice, thinking of her possibly defunct cell phone. More than likely, it was irreparable by now.
My own carelessness.
But just as she wasn’t in a hurry to leave the serene setting, Amelia also did not bemoan the loss of her phone.

When Michael reached the cabin, he looked surprised. “I’m making breakfast,” she announced, beginning to fry the eggs and bacon.

He, in turn, declared that her tire was changed and ready to go. “There’s a place in Morgantown where ya can stop and get a full-size tire, but the car’s purring like a contented barn cat.”

After dishing up the eggs and carrying them to the table, she took her seat across from him. Michael asked to give a silent blessing, and she bowed her head quickly. At his amen, he reached for the salt and pepper and began to talk again of Hickory Hollow. Each time he spoke of the place, his blue eyes twinkled.

“You must really love it there,” she remarked.

“No matter what, it’s always been home.”

They ate without speaking for a time, and she was aware of an unexpected undertow of tension between them. Amelia sensed he was mulling something as he worked his jaw. He kept looking over at her.

“Listen, I’ve been thinking.” He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her. “This might sound peculiar, but I came to this cabin to pray for guidance and . . .” He stopped for a moment and smiled quickly. “You know, Amy, I’m beginning to wonder if God sent you to get me thinking outside the box.”

I’ve never been anyone’s answer to prayer before,
she thought, glad she hadn’t said that aloud. “I’ve always heard that there can be a real mystery in the way God orchestrates things.”

“Right, and time and again the Bible shows that.” He rose to get a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard and spread it thickly on his toast. “I’ve been torturing my parents needlessly.”

“Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

He stared at his plate, knife in his hand. “I know you’re right—what you said last night. I would never want to hurt my folks, ’specially my mother. She has such a tender heart . . . she alone has helped keep me in the fold, all this time.”

“But is Amish life really what you want?”

Even now, Michael’s concern clouded the cabin, just as the rain had the skies last night. He did not respond.

She drew a breath, reluctant to hit the road for home, though she must. “You’ve been most kind, Michael, giving me a place to stay.” She paused, already missing the quaintness of the cabin. “And thanks for changing my tire. I really appreciate it.”

“Not a problem.”

For the first time in her life, she groped for the right words. “Well, thanks again.” Then she backpedaled, offering to clean up the mess she’d made cooking breakfast. But he wouldn’t hear of it. She even went over to the small area near the bunk where she’d slept and looked about for . . . what? She’d brought very little—an overnight bag, purse, and her fiddle case. Nothing more.

“You haven’t played for me yet.” From where he sat at the table, Michael looked at the still-open fiddle case.

He’s stalling, too. . . .

“It’d be a shame if I didn’t get to hear you in person, Amy Lee.”

The recognition in his eyes told it all. He must be aware of her country music stints. But how?