Sarah's Garden (17 page)
“Sarah . . . you are a good girl, but I didn’t forget that this is your birthday too. Go in and visit with Chelsea for a few minutes before she falls to sleep. I will do the washing.”
Sarah was only too glad to relinquish the task as her hands were already freezing from the pump water. She skipped indoors to find Luke and John talking at the kitchen table while Father rocked the precious bundle with a look of peace on his wrinkled face. Sarah dropped a kiss on his forehead and patted the baby before going to her sister’s room. Frau Knepp had gone, and Chelsea appeared to be dozing, her long chestnut red hair unbound and flowing against the pillows. She opened her eyes at once when the door squeaked and smiled wearily at Sarah.
“Come in, Sarah, please.”
Sarah approached the bed on silent feet. Chelsea’s face looked pale but luminous, and Sarah felt she was in the great presence of new life, a new touch from the Lord’s merciful hand.
“How was it, really, Chelsea?” Sarah whispered.
Chelsea grinned. “Hard . . . but worth it. Did you see him?”
“
Jah
. He is very handsome.”
“Come and sit down. You make me feel like I’m ill. And I want to thank you again for his first quilt. I know how much you labored over it.” She patted the edge of the bed beside her and Sarah perched gingerly.
“I actually grew to love the time I spent doing it; I’m so glad to give it to you.”
“
Danki
. Now, tell me what’s bothering you, little
schweschder
.”
“Me?” Sarah was shocked. “I don’t want to talk about me. It is your special day.”
“It’s your birthday, remember? Go over to the top drawer of the bureau and open it. You’ll find your gift inside.”
Sarah rose and went to the wooden bureau. She opened the topmost drawer and withdrew a brown-paper-wrapped package tied with a red ribbon. She went back to sit on the bed as she unwrapped it.
She withdrew a bound leather book embossed with the words
For Thoughts
on the outside. She flipped through the pages and found them to be lined but empty.
“It’s a journal,” Chelsea explained. “I had one before I married. I used to write all sorts of poems and thoughts inside. I thought that you might like to do the same since you loved writing in school.”
Sarah hugged the book to her chest, then clasped her sister’s hand. “
Danki
, Chelsea. I will use it.”
“But who will you write of?” Chelsea’s smile was knowing.
“No one special, of course.”
“Ah well, perhaps you will use it for your plants.”
Sarah frowned at her sister. There was no doubt that Chelsea knew something, and if Chelsea knew it, then others might suspect too.
“What do you know?”
Chelsea attempted a casual stretch, then winced so that Sarah hurried to straighten the bedclothes.
“Well?”
“I know you, little sister. And your eyes are never so big, not even for your garden. John told me that he asked Dr. Williams to come in. I’ve heard that the doctor is quite good looking for an
Englischer
.”
Sarah could not contain her blush and stared down at the journal, unsure of what to say.
“Sarah, I wouldn’t tell a soul . . . you know that. But he ’s
Englisch
.”
“I know that. Do you think I haven’t thought of that a million times over?”
“Don’t worry.” Chelsea patted her hand, then yawned. “
Der Herr
will send you a good Amish man and you will forget your fancy for the
Englischer
. I thought I’d marry a half dozen men before John. But when I met him, I knew it was right. The same will happen for you, I know.”
Sarah nodded, watching as her sister drifted off to sleep, but in her heart, she wasn’t sure she liked the idea of a good Amish man. After all, did one have to be Amish to be good in God’s eyes? The thought shook her and she rose just as
Mamm
entered the room.
“I’m going to stay tonight, Sarah, and Father and Luke will take you home. Make sure you get up extra early to do the breakfast before you go to the stand.”
“Yes,
Mamm
.”
“Chelsea got you a journal, eh? It’ll be good for you to put down your thoughts. I’ve worried that something has been troubling you.”
Mamm
caressed her cheek as she passed.
“I am fine,
Mamm
,” Sarah responded, hurrying to get out of the room before anyone could make any other observations about her personal life.
She gained the door and had her hand on the knob when her mother whispered to her softly. “
Hallich gebottsdaag
. . . Happy birthday.”
She smiled and nodded and left the room before Chelsea’s next wakening.
G
rant drew up before the Bilder farm and found it to be more ramshackle than its neighbors. Little boys, dressed so much like Amish men, ran about in small black hats playing kick the can, while a woman hummed and strung laundry haphazardly on a sagging line.
He grabbed his bag from the back, trying to pick out a dog from the parade of chickens, ducks, and geese that seemed to dot the place like confetti, and finally went over to Mrs. Bilder and her wash.
“Hello, ma’am. I had word that you have a sick dog?”
The woman spoke without removing the wooden clothespins from between her thin lips. “Dead already.”
“Oh, I’m very sorry. I would have come sooner had I known . . .”
“Dog’s been dead for two months.”
“All right . . . I guess I’ll move along then.”
He turned to go, chagrined at wasting his time when the woman called out to him, “I do have a sick cow in the barn, though.”
He turned back with a sigh. “How bad off is it?”
She pulled the last clothespin from her mouth and started walking to the barn, cutting across the array of children and animals like someone negotiating a New York City street at lunch time. Grant followed reluctantly.
They entered the murky barn and Grant was surprised to see an Amish man with a thick beard, tilted backward in a chair, sound asleep against one of the stall doors.
“That’s Mr. Bilder. He ’s got a sleep problem. Sleeps all day, is up all night. Always been that way.”
The man suddenly let out a roar of a snore that sounded somewhere between a bobcat and a woman screaming. Grant shivered in spite of himself.
“Strange, ain’t it?” Mrs. Bilder remarked. “I make him sleep out here ’cause he scares the young ones with his snoring.”
“Have you tried seeing a physician?”
“Nah . . . what for? Ain’t no way to change a man’s snore; it’s part of who he is.”
Grant nodded, unable to keep from whispering in case he brought on the snore again. “Where ’s the cow?”
“Over there, far stall. She ’s cast her withers.”
Grant nearly groaned in despair. “Cast her withers” was the polite Amish way for saying that a cow had expelled her uterus following a vigorous birth. It wasn’t anything painful for the cow, but for the vet, it meant a lot of trouble getting things back inside.
“Leave you to it then,” Mrs. Bilder announced, turning to exit the barn and slide the door closed behind her.
“Yaowwwwhmmmmhrrrrrr!” Mr. Bilder snored again and Grant jumped. He’d just have to get used to it.
He walked over to the stall to find the cow eating at the trough while a giant, pink organ protruded from her backside. Her tail flicked with goodwill, though, and she didn’t even seem to notice that she was missing half of her insides. Grant rolled up his sleeves, then, recalling numerous fretful battles with “cast withers” during his training, he stripped his shirt off entirely. He hung it on a convenient nail, then set about scrubbing up his hands and arms and chest with a bottle of antibacterial lotion from his bag. He washed away the apple butter and thought of his kiss with Sarah.
“Yaowwwwhmmmmm . . . hrrrrr . . . hmmmmm!” Grant jumped again and shook his head. He had a good notion to go over and squeeze Mr. Bilder’s nose until he choked awake but decided that wouldn’t quite be professional. So he finished lathering his arms and slipped into the stall.
“All right, old girl. Let’s see how we get on, okay?” He began to soap the bulbous organ, which was covered with bits of hay and afterbirth. The cow continued to chew contentedly.
“Ya . . . wwwwaawaaaahmmmmhhrrrrrr!”
“I hear him, old girl. Let’s just think about us.” He took a deep breath and grabbed hold of the giant organ, filling his arms and chest with it. It was heavy but relatively easy to position so long as the cow cooperated, and the cow was cooperating. He had things back in place in no time, relieved that it was an easy go, and moved back to a nearby bucket of water to soap down his arms and chest once more. He pulled his shirt back on and gathered his instruments back into his bag.
“Yaaaahmmm . . . yahmmmm . . . yahmmmhrrr!”
He’d had enough. Sleeping problem or no, somebody had to stop Mr. Bilder from terrorizing the animals in the barn, let alone his own children. Grant caught up his bag and stalked over to the sleeping man. In his best attempt at imitation, he leaned close to the sleeper’s ear, drew a long breath, then hollered like a wild banshee. “Yaaaahmmhrrrwawawawahrrrrr!”
Mr. Bilder opened his eyes and let the feet of his chair fall forward so suddenly that Grant jumped back a step.
“What is wrong with you, Son?” the older man asked, staring at Grant with an injured frown.
“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? Get up, man! It’s daylight! You’re missing your children grow up; you’re missing your wife. You snore like a . . . like a . . .”
The Amish man laughed. “
Ach
, you mean this—Yahmmmmmmhrrrrrhmmmrrr!”
“Yes,” Grant said, deflated. “That’s what I mean.”
“Well, that’s just to get me some peace from the young’uns. Once they grow up, I’ll go back to sleepin’ regular and snorin’ regular too.”
“I’m going to tell your wife,” Grant warned.
The older man rose and placed a placating hand on Grant’s chest. “Doc, don’t do that, please. Me and the wife get along just right like this. I’d hate to have anything interfere with our relationship.”
Grant shook his head in disgust and started for the barn door, then paused. “All right, Mr. Bilder. Your secret’s safe with me, but in
Englisch
terms—you owe me one.”
The Amish man smiled and nodded, tilting back in his chair once more, his eyes drifting closed. “Anytime, Doc . . . anytime.”
I
t was nearly dusk when Father turned the buggy out of the Kemps’ lane and started the drive for home. Sarah and Luke crowded in the backseat and checked the LED batteries in the reflectors and turn signals to make sure that they were working properly. There ’d been many an accident between Amish buggies and
Englisch
automobiles, and Father insisted that they be as careful as possible.
As they moved along and the first stars appeared, Father, enraptured with the new baby, began to sing in his rich, soothing baritone.
Schof, bubbeli, schloff,
Der dawdy hut die schof
,
Die mommy hut die rote kuhn
,
Un steht in dreck bis an die knie.
Sleep, baby, sleep,
Thy father keeps the sheep,
Thy mother shakes the dreamland tree.
To make the dreams fall down on thee.
Sarah and Luke joined in, singing the age-old lullaby, and Sarah felt a brief sense of peace and renewal wash over her. She knew that the Lord would work things out right between her and Grant Williams if she would be willing to trust like a child does. She clutched the journal Chelsea had given her in her arms and mentally composed the sights and sounds of the night—the silhouettes of the mountains, a passing buggy, the low hung stars, and the smell of fall. She had not written much since she ’d finished school, but now she looked forward to having a secret place to share her thoughts and feelings.
As they drew within a mile of home, the distinct smell of smoke and something like burnt popcorn drifted eerily over the night, dissipating her reverie. Father clicked to Shadow to hurry him to the top of the hill, then he drew the horse to a stop. Below them, in the creek valley, the King farm stood with many beaconing lamps lit, while the yet-to-be harvested field near the house blazed with fire.
“Father!” Luke cried.
“Was in der welt
?”
“Crop fire, Son. Hold on! Come, Shadow!” He slapped the reins and Sarah clutched the side of the buggy as the dizzying scene came more into focus. Many neighboring buggies were pulled a good distance from the flames while men ran back and forth with buckets. She saw her brothers plowing fire breaks in the ground near the side of the house and around the boundaries of the field. She heard the fearful whinnies of the horses as they smelled the smoke, and, in the distance, the long whistle of an
Englisch
siren and then the clanging of a bell. She looked at Father and thought how old he seemed in the harsh contrasting light of flame and night. He pulled Shadow up as close as he dared and jumped down. Luke and Sarah scrambled after him while he called over his shoulder.
“Luke, take Shadow back a bit, then run and help your brothers. Sarah, stay near the horses; try to keep them calm.”
Sarah shivered as the clanging of the
Englisch
fire truck grew louder and the long vehicle suddenly swung into their lane, followed by the whirling red light of an ambulance. Soon,
Englisch
firefighters were unrolling hoses and hooking them to the pump, sending streams of water into the cornfield. Her throat began to burn and her eyes watered as Shadow began to prance. She turned to soothe the animal when the doctor appeared behind her and took the reins, gentling the horse with a deep humming.
Sarah nearly sagged against Grant’s tall, dependable form when a fireman hurried past with a radio in hand.
“Send the police too.” The man’s voice carried on the wind and smoke. “It looks like arson.”
I
n the dawn’s first light, while Father and her brothers still slept, Sarah stood barefoot at the edge of the burnt field.
Mamm
had been alerted about the fire and that the damage was limited to the corn crop. She ’d sent word that she would stay with Chelsea and the baby for one additional day, providing that Sarah could manage. Now fog rose from the charred ground, giving it an eerie, choked appearance. Sarah was praying, thinking about the loss but more about the anger and hatred that would drive someone to such an extent of destruction. She knew about hate crimes against her own faith, of course, everyone who was Amish did. But there was a reason that the Amish would not use force to retaliate, why Father did not want to pursue an investigation; it only provoked more violence, and it was not a reflection of Christ’s way.