Fire in the Night (23 page)

“That’s for sure.”

Dat entered the kitchen with Suzie in tow, their faces flushed with cold air and hard work.

“We’re hungry!” Suzie said, her voice low.

Since Mervin’s death, Suzie had seemingly found solace in becoming her father’s right-hand person, the way Mervin had been. Whenever she could, she accompanied him from barn to workshop, from cow stable to haymow, handing him tools, always asking questions.

Dat seemed to appreciate this, his former little companion stolen from him by the cruel flood waters. Suzie, in her childish way, remedied that theft the best she knew how.

“I’m going to finish the cow stable, then Suzie and I are going to go to Intercourse to the hardware store. You need anything?”

“Clothespins.”

“Alright. After that, I’ll bring Suzie home before I go help Ben Zook. He still needs help finishing up doors, and he said his diesel shanty could still use some work.”

They sat dunking their cookies in coffee, lost in thought, until Levi’s raspy breathing broke through to them. Dat looked up.

“Is that Levi?”

“He’s pretty sick this time.”

After they finished up their snack, Sarah resumed her cleaning. Priscilla sprawled across the sofa with the daily paper, which was every bit as annoying as Levi’s breathing.

Sarah was aggravated. She weighed 135 pounds, couldn’t eat whoopie pies, was almost twenty and still single, and had one annoying fourteen-year-old sister and a brother with Down syndrome who was a lot sicker than even Mam knew. Everything irked her this morning. Melvin hadn’t called all week, and she was sick and tired of those stupid volleyball games anyway. What was the point of batting that ball back and forth across the net?

“Get off the couch,” she growled.

Priscilla obeyed but promptly sat on the recliner, the newspaper held in front of her face.

“Priscilla!”

“What?”

They were interrupted by the sound of hoarse coughing, which turned into a wheezing of mammoth proportions, as Levi struggled for breath.

Mam hurried into his room, Sarah following.

“Levi.”

Mam called his name tenderly, as Sarah smoothed the covers over his shoulder.

“He’s so hot, Mam.”

Mam nodded, held the digital thermometer to his ear, and lifted it, mutely, for Sarah to see: 104.3.

“Time to call someone,” Mam said briskly.

Sarah nodded, grabbed a sweater, and went to the phone shanty with the speed she felt was necessary.

It was Saturday, so the health center was closed. She dialed 911 and calmly told the dispatcher the situation. Inside, Mam was trying to relieve Levi, who was now awake, crying in pain, his massive chest rising and falling as he struggled for breath.

Levi’s condition was not out of the ordinary for the Beiler family, so their movements were not panicked, just calmly efficient. They sat him up, offering a drink of cold water, their eyes speaking volumes as they knew it was bad this time.

Levi was whisked away to Lancaster General Hospital. Dat was notified and joined Mam there while the girls finished up the cleaning and prepared to work outside.

They’d call around three o’clock.

The autumn sun had warmed the air, and Sarah soon shed her black sweater, raking the front lawn with long even strokes. The wash flapped in the sky high up on the wheel line, a colorful picture of motion, the green, blue, purple, and pink colors waving back and forth, whichever way the wind sent them.

Priscilla used the leaf blower. Suzie ran in circles, flopped into the piles of leaves, and then helped rake them onto the plastic sheet before they dragged them away to be burned.

The crisp air lifted Sarah’s spirits, and she reveled in the perfectly raked yard. She leaned on her rake and admired the brilliant red, orange, and yellow of the chrysanthemums planted in a row along the garden’s edge, the cover crop already producing a thick, green lushness.

Another season had come and gone, and the shelves were well stocked in the cellar. Applesauce, peaches, pears, five varieties of pickles, tomato soup, spaghetti sauce, and red beets—the variety of colors a sight to behold. Corn, lima beans, peas, green beans, cherries, and raspberries occupied the freezer in labeled boxes, ready to be cooked or made into pie fillings.

It was a wonderful way of life, and the rich gratitude that flowed through Sarah’s veins brought a renewed zest for life, for the Amish way. No doubt it didn’t make sense to the English world, and it certainly didn’t have to. Sarah knew her people were not out to prove anything or live self-righteously. They weren’t looking down their noses with the attitude of the scribes and Pharisees in the Bible.

It was an appreciation of heritage, a rich experience of lives lived before theirs—the stories, the respect for birth, life, and death, for marriage and raising children. It was continuing to live upright humble lives and existing in harmony amid a world filling with more and more confusing and unwanted technology.

Here in the heart of Lancaster County, with all its sprawling development and tourism, Sarah could see the physical results of her labor and enjoy the same house, yard, garden, and outbuildings as her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother before her.

Except for the barn. She turned and eyed the sturdy new building, and a sadness coupled with appreciation enveloped her. The barn was resplendent. A change had come into their lives, and they had to accept it. She could picture the old barn, so timeless, so beautiful, but it was gone now. A new one took its place, and it was okay.

Missing Mervin was not. How he would have run and leaped into piles of leaves, scattering them untidily all over the yard. Sarah would have chased him, caught him, tickled his sides, rolled him into the leaves until they both fell back, breathless, laughing, his eyes alight with the little boy mischief she loved.

But
so iss is na
(so it is now). Mam’s words were tapped into her mind like old Morse code.

Geb dich uf
(give yourself up). It was a full time job, giving herself up, but anything else surely led to misery and kicking futilely against walls of restraint. She could kick and pummel that wall with a fist and get absolutely nowhere. It only bruised and battered the spirit, the soul.

Little Mervin was not here to spend his days growing up with them. It was so final—and so real.

Sighing, Sarah turned, called to Suzie, and went to the phone shanty, leaving her rake leaning against its front wall. She spoke to Dat, who told her Levi had a serious infection in his lungs, a bad case of pneumonia, and was in the ICU.

Sarah gasped, tears of pity welling in her eyes. Did she want to come stay with Mam, or would she rather do chores? She’d milk, with her sisters’ help.

Dat thanked her and said it meant so much. Mam would be glad if he could stay, at least until Levi was stable.

Sarah soon found herself in the cow stable with a navy-blue men’s handkerchief tied over her hair, pulled down almost to her eyebrows, and sturdy Tingley work boots on her feet. She wore an old purple dress and no stockings. She lifted her arms as she called to the plodding cows, their heavy udders dripping with milk.

Priscilla wheeled the feed cart along the alley, dumping scoops of nutrient-rich cow feed on the tiles beside her, the eager cows curling their long, rough tongues greedily around it.

Suzie was feeding the chickens, the sheep, and the two pigs Dat had bought from his neighbor, Elam. They would be fattened for next winter, he said. Suzie loved the pigs, and Sarah told her that if she wasn’t careful, she wouldn’t be able to let Dat butcher them. She said the cute little pigs would turn into big lazy hogs. Then she wouldn’t be attached to them.

Sarah tapped the first cow’s hip and was rewarded by a polite lifting of one hind foot, then another. The cow moved over to accommodate her, allowing her to dip the udder in the disinfecting solution, then attach the gleaming stainless steel milking machine.

As the diesel purred in the shanty, the sun began its descent toward evening. The cows rattled their locks, a horse whinnied, and another one answered. The steady chugging of the milkers brought contentment to Sarah, and she smiled happily at her sister.

Priscilla smiled back and gave the feed cart a shove, sending it crashing against the chute. She turned, dusting her hands by clapping them against each other.

“Now what?” she asked, grinning cheekily.

“You better watch it. That’s a new feed chute, you know. You probably put a good sized dent in it.”

In reply, Priscilla spread her arms and twirled, a pirouette executed perfectly, the lime scattered on the aisle assisting her movement. Sarah stood between two cows, an elbow on one’s back, watching as Priscilla leaped and twirled again, just for the sheer joy of it.

Well, you were only fourteen once, she thought, smiling to herself. That time when you were still enough of a child to spontaneously whirl around a cow stable, not yet having to worry about the
rumspringa
years.

Sarah was startled to hear a clapping sound. She looked toward the door of the milk house and saw Matthew Stoltzfus watching Priscilla, his dark eyes alight with enjoyment.

“Bravo! Bravo!”

Priscilla came to an immediate halt, her cheeks flaming, her eyes blinking miserably.

“Keep going!” Matthew shouted, boisterous to the point the cows drew back on their locks, causing them to clank loudly.

Priscilla shook her head, her eyes downcast.

“Hey, Priscilla, you need to come to the…”

“She’s only fourteen!” Sarah spat out forcefully.

“Whoa!”

Startled, Matthew looked at Sarah, whose eyes were flashing with outrage.

“I didn’t see you, Sarah. S’up?”

As usual, the anger dissipated, and as usual, the greeting brought the response he knew it would—a smile returned, a gladness in the green eyes.

“Oh, not much. Levi’s in the hospital, so we’re doing chores this evening.”

“Poor old chap. What’s wrong with him this time?”

“Pneumonia.”

“Yeah, well. One of these days the old boy will kick the bucket. Mongoloids don’t often live to be forty, do they?”

Sarah opened her mouth in reply but was stopped short by Priscilla’s clipped tones.

“He’s not a mongoloid, Matthew. That word is outdated, taboo. He has Down syndrome. We hope he’ll live to be a hundred. You have no idea how much our family enjoys him. He’s the star of the household. But you wouldn’t know, because he doesn’t look nice to you.”

“Whew! What a speech!” Matthew clapped a hand to his forehead, and then took off after Priscilla in mock pursuit.

She gave him no chance, standing her ground as obstinately as a pillar of iron, her eyes flashing defiantly. He stood grinning, his hands on his hips, but his eyes fell first. He turned away, the grin slipping away, embarrassed but desperately trying to hide it.

He walked the length of the cow stable, then turned back, and said, “I almost forgot what I came for. Can we borrow your croquet game? Sisters and husbands are coming.”

“Sure!” Sarah smiled too brightly, stepped out too quickly. “I can show you where it is.”

“You’re milking, Sarah. I’ll go.”

With that, Priscilla ushered Matthew out the door, and Sarah felt the life-giving air leave her body in a whoosh of defeat. He left and never looked back, sending her heart plummeting into another week of lost hope and despair.

When Priscilla returned, she was not smiling, just talking fast and hard and with meaning. She told Sarah that Matthew was about the last reason she could think of to act the way she did. What was wrong with her? He was arrogant, a flirt, and not even worth her time. Furthermore, he was dating, and it was about time she got over him. If she kept this up, sure as shooting she’d be an old maid. She was halfway there already.

She finished with a grand, “So go ahead, ruin your life. He knows everything he’s doing to you. You’re just another one on his string of starstruck young ladies. It’s disgusting.”

Sarah was speechless as she watched her younger sister stand her ground, amazed at the resolve she was displaying. When had she managed to acquire this attitude?

And then Sarah realized it was a necessary virtue birthed out of her loss. She had weathered a terrifying episode, dealt with waves of grief, been tossed about by winds of change. But she had clung to her little life raft of prayer and newborn faith. She had come through with flying colors. Bravo, Priscilla, Bravo.

Chapter 17

L
EVI WAS IN THE HOSPITAL
almost a week. Six days, to be exact. He was everyone’s friend, a favorite. He spoke in broken English, his droll sense of humor the talk of the third floor, where he had been transported after the infection in his lungs was under control.

He felt so important, being wheeled down the wide, gleaming corridors of Lancaster General, as he referred to it. His narrow brown eyes beamed brightly as he smiled, turning his head this way and then the other, trying to check out the occupants of each room they passed.

“What is he doing? Why is she here? What’s wrong with her?” Over and over he voiced his curiosity, the nurse’s aide at his side answering in monosyllables that were just enough to satisfy Levi.