Fire in the Night (31 page)

T
HE PREDICTIONS FROM THE
weather forecast proved deplorably accurate. Tiny bits of ice mixed with cold, wet rain drove in from the east, relentlessly battering the new metal siding of Reuby Kauffman’s barn. It fell on the half-frozen debris-filled troughs of mud and water blackened by the charred bits of wood, twisted nails, corkscrewed metal, and chunks of blistered tile and drywall and concrete. It swirled and eddied around potholes in the broken macadam and pooled in deep ruts left by the fire trucks and bulldozers, creating a slick, glistening other-worldliness by the time Reuby awoke the following morning.

David Beiler was one of the first people to arrive, his old wool hat bent and dripping, the droplets hovering on its brim as if undecided about whether to freeze or slide off. He threw the leather reins across the horse’s back, reached for the
shtrung
(leather straps connecting the harness and buggy), clicked the backhold snap, and looked up to find Reuby striding through the mud.

“Morning, Davey.”

“How are you, Reuby?”

“Good. Good.”

Dat looked out from beneath his hat brim, his gaze warm with the compassion of a person with
aforeung
(experience). He was shocked to find Reuby’s normally vibrant eyes clouded with fatigue, defeat—and what else? Dat shivered, shaken to the core by the gray pallor on Reuby’s face.

“Reuby, are you sure you’re doing good?”

In answer, Reuby half turned, his mouth working, as he fought to gain control over the debilitating despair that threatened to squeeze the life from his veins. He swallowed, nodded.

Dat came around to Reuby’s side and placed his gloved hand on the wet black shoulder, a gesture of pleasant understanding, of deep sincerity, and compassion.

“Reuby, it seems impossible now, but it isn’t. You’ll receive help. God will provide. He always does.”

Deeply moved, Reuby’s shoulders began to shake, as the control he held onto so firmly slipped from his grasp. Dat’s hand remained on his shoulder, the other held the bridle of his unquestioning Fred, who stood obediently in the cold wet rain until his master would lead him to shelter.

Reuby’s head came up then. He shook it back and forth, produced a red, wrinkled handkerchief, and blew lustily. He placed it quickly back in his pocket, as if the disappearance would hide his shame at crying when he was, after all, a man who viewed the whole world through rose-colored glasses of love and charity.

“How can a person go on?” he mumbled brokenly.

“God will see you through.”

“But I’m already deeply in debt. So deep, in fact, I don’t know if it’s wise to rebuild. The Amish fire insurance will never cover it all. I feel perhaps I should just give up, rent a small home, get a day job.”

“In the Old Testament, God told the children of Israel to be patient, to stand by, that he would show works of wonder for them. If you rebuild in faith, God will bless you, like Abraham of old. His belief in God was rewarded many times over.”

“I’m not Abraham.”

There was a tinge of bitterness in Reuby’s words, so Dat told him to come to the meeting on Monday evening. A group of men were assembling to figure out a solution of sorts. They would talk about finances as well. Already, there were trust funds established at two different banks, the generosity of the people reaching unbelievable levels.

Reuby nodded and yawned. He peered at Dat with bleary eyes and said, yes, he’d be there. Then he yawned mightily once more. Dat knew Reuby had barely managed an hour’s sleep, the enormity of his situation keeping him awake long hours as the icy rain pelted the shambles of his home and pinged and clattered against the metal roofing of the makeshift quarters in the implement shed.

“The sun will shine again, Reuby. God never makes us suffer more than he gives us the strength to bear.”

Reuby nodded and watched dully as more teams appeared. Dat knew he was tired, discouraged, and moving in a fog of disorientation and would be for a while longer.

“Be thankful no lives were lost,” he said.

“I know, I know. You lost young Mervin, and nothing can replace that kind of loss.”

“Absolutely,” Dat said.

Far from the site of the barn raising, Sarah shivered as she sat uncomfortably in the back seat of the van, wedged between Ruthie Zook on her right, and Anna Mary Fisher on her left. Both were sound asleep, their pillows stuffed haphazardly into the corners of the back seat, their mouths hanging open in the most unattractive manner.

The ride to market was risky, unnerving at best, the driver hunched over his steering wheel, staring into the night at the slick and dangerous roads. Massive dump trucks crawled along, their beds lifted as they swirled salt, calcium, and cinders onto the roads for the edgy motorists trailing behind.

If Ike Stoltzfus would close his mouth for one second, Sarah thought. As if the driver knew he had support from the back seat, he turned and told Ike to keep his opinions to himself. He was the driver and he would decide the speed. It was no big deal to be late; the market wouldn’t exactly be booming with customers in this weather anyway, so just shut it. Ike slouched back in his seat, crossed his arms, and began to brood, glancing balefully at the streaks of ice and rain in the glare of the headlights.

The van veered crazily as the driver swung the steering wheel to the left, then right, but they stayed on course, the speed significantly reduced yet again.

Ike yelped but remained quiet, his eyes sliding to the tense profile beside him.

Anna Mary’s head swung back against Sarah’s shoulder. Her eyes fluttered open, and she gasped. Ruthie’s head slid forward, she righted it awkwardly, and went right on sleeping.

Sarah sipped her lukewarm coffee from the tall travel cup. Anna Mary leaned over and asked if she could have a swallow of it. Handing it over, Sarah grimaced as she engulfed the lid with her heavy lips, slurped, and handed it back.

End of the coffee for me, she thought.

“You can have it.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks.”

The ride was stretching into its fourth hour when they finally rolled up to the vast brick building on Progress Street. The Amish had turned the obscure old train station into a bustling, friendly market full of life, sounds, and smells that enticed consumers to buy something from each stand.

Sturdy posts and a mock shingled roof framed Amos Fisher’s produce stand. Piles of fresh tomatoes, green, yellow, and red peppers, towers of cucumbers, zucchini, summer squash, carrots, garden lettuce, and new onions created a feast for the eyes. The bonus attraction for modern shoppers was the organic label boasting that no pesticides or insecticides had been used to grow the vegetables. Customers from the big city paid the price, placing their trust in the bearded fellow and his helpers wearing white bib aprons and coverings on their heads.

Despite the numerous meat counters, some customers only bought from the stand run by a Jewish family. Their meats were kosher, prepared according to the requirements of the Jewish law in the Old Testament. Kosher or not, he had the best salami in the market, and a lively mix of customers, both Jewish and English, Amish and Mennonite, bought from him.

Sarah always viewed the Jewish family with a certain mix of awe and curiosity. What she really wanted was to sit down and compare their beliefs. How different or similar were they? Like the Jews, the Amish derived many of their highly esteemed traditions from the Old Testament. She supposed belief in Jesus separated them, but still. Both groups seemed to have a common love of tradition, and that interested her, although she doubted she’d ever have the nerve—or the time—to start a conversation with them.

The largest stand in the sprawling market was the Stoltzfus bakery, where freshly made pies, bread, rolls, cakes, cookies, and cupcakes rolled off the shelves as fast Sarah and the fourteen others who worked there could restock the spotless white shelves. They covered cinnamon rolls with Saran Wrap before they were properly cooled. But the goods sold rapidly just the same. Sarah chuckled as an overweight lady happily snatched up the fresh buns and scuttled to a nearby table before peeling off the plastic and tucking into the first heavenly mouthful, rolling her eyes blissfully at her companion.

Sarah mixed huge vats of yeast dough and put large mounds of it into the proofer, a machine that produced just the right amount of warmth and humidity to raise the dough to the required size. Then she turned it on a large, floured surface and began forming the quota of bread, rolls, and sweet rolls. Her arms became rounded and well-muscled from plying, rolling, and turning the dough, sprinkling it with brown sugar and cinnamon and walnuts.

There were five sit-down restaurants and many booths where customers could eat food they bought to take out. Leather supplies, a craft stand, and outdoor furniture—all at reasonable prices—catered to many different preferences.

Sarah truly loved her job now, and her devotion showed in her willingness to take on any task. But she was mostly restricted to the “yeast crew.”

Now, because of the inclement weather, they cut down on the amount of dough they would mix for the day. And the workers were allowed a forty-five minute break instead of only thirty. At one o’clock, Sarah still had not taken her break, allowing the other girls their turns, saying she wasn’t that hungry.

Then quite suddenly, she felt dizzy, her stomach caving in on itself. A half hour later, Ike told her to go on break, just when she wondered whether to collapse or eat dough. Of course, she did neither.

Hurrying along the aisle, her purse slung over her shoulder, Sarah sat down heavily and waited at her usual booth for her friend, Rose, who was having a slow day and came over almost immediately to sit with Sarah. As always, she was beautiful, her hair gleaming in the electric ceiling lights, her skin flawless, her robin’s egg dress reflecting her perfect blue eyes.

“Sarah!” She reached across the table, grasped both of Sarah’s hands, and squeezed. “I miss seeing you! I could hardly stand not going to the supper on Sunday evening!”

“Where were you, Rose?” Sarah asked, concerned now.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Rose removed her hands and looked away and then back. She cupped her delicate chin in one hand and shrugged.

“Sometimes it’s hard to go to the supper crowd. I mean, I’m happy. Don’t get me wrong, it’s just that…I don’t know.”

“Well, you’ve always been dating,” Sarah said too quickly and much too easily.

“I guess. I don’t know.” She brightened then and leaned forward and said, “You know who is just so attractive? That Lee Glick. See, the reason we never knew of him is that he used to be with the Dominoes, that other youth group, and now he moved down here with his sister, that Anna and Ben. Their barn was the second one that burned. Anyway, I went to the dinner table with him. I was surprised he went in to the afternoon table. He picked me, remember?”

Rose giggled, then looked away. “Oh, what can I get you? It’s almost two o’clock. Haven’t you eaten anything at all?”

Sarah shook her head. “Bring me a bowl of chili. Fast!”

Rose giggled again and hurried off, waving a hand behind her.

The Dominoes? No, he wasn’t.

The Dominoes was the name of an Amish youth group. Because of the many youth in Lancaster County, they were divided into groups with different names, like the Dominoes or the Drifters—any name to mark them as a specific group.

The largest was the Eagles, a parent-supervised group attempting a cleaner, better way of
rumspringa
, without the smoking and drinking of past days. Concerned parents and ministers, alarmed at the moral decline among the youth, were attempting a new
rumspringa
, where the
ordnung
still applied. This caused quite a bit of controversy among Amish wary of anything untraditional. A peaceful truce had been reached, although problems still broke out. But as Dat told Sarah, the problems could be solved when each placed the emphasis on giving in to the other in humility and brotherly love.

Rose didn’t know that Anna had told Sarah that Lee had been with the Drifters, the older group, not the Dominoes. Sarah was peeved, intimidated by Rose’s knowledge of Lee. What would Rose say if she knew about last week at Reuby Kauffman’s?

Her face flamed suddenly. When Rose appeared with a steaming bowl of thick chili, a dollop of sour cream and cheddar cheese on top, she looked anxiously at Sarah and asked if she had a fever. Blinking nervously, Sarah said, no, no, she was fine, and lifted the soup spoon to her mouth.

Rose seemed satisfied with Sarah’s reply, then asked if she’d seen Matthew this week. Sarah nodded and told her about the barn raising, offering nothing more.

“Well, how does he seem to you? Is he himself? I mean, you know, getting on with his life?”

Rose was nervously folding and unfolding a napkin, the toe of one foot bobbing furiously, her eyes too intent.

“Well, he teased Priscilla a lot, but—you know—that’s how he’s always been. He seems happy, yes, at least as far as I can tell.”

Rose said nothing, folded the napkin again. “Well, I better go. We didn’t finish making some of the soups. In this weather, it’ll take a lot, later on in the day. Hey, see you at Ervin’s.”

Sarah nodded.

“How are you going?”

Sarah cringed inwardly, wishing with all her heart that Rose hadn’t asked her that one question. Why did she have to know?

“Matthew.”

“Oh.”

Rose lifted her chin, scowled, turned on her heel, and hurried off, moving faster than she had all day.

Well. So be it, Rose. You’re the one that broke off the friendship.

Before long, the chili was gone, so Sarah paid, wandered two aisles down, bought a chunk of chocolate walnut fudge (she’d save some for Levi, his favorite), and was slowly walking past the leather goods stand when someone called her name.

Surprised, Sarah turned. “Oh, Ashley. Hi.”

“What are you doing?”

“Eating fudge.”

Ashley giggled, then looked ashamed and ill at ease, fingering a key chain, her eyes averted.