The Amish Widow's Secret. Cheryl Williford
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at just the right intervals.
As the men began gathering, Sarah placed heaping platters of her favorite breakfast dish made of sausage, potatoes, cheese, bread, onions and peppers in the middle of each table and at the ends. Bowls of fresh fruit, cut bite-size, added color to the meal. Heavy white plates, one for each worker, lined the tables. Glasses of cold milk sat next to each plate.
“The table looks very nice,” Marta whispered.
“It looks hospital sterile.” Sarah loved color. Bold, bright splashes of color. What would happen if she’d used the red table napkins she’d hemmed just after Joseph died? In her grief she’d had to do something outrageous, or scream in her misery. She longed to use the napkins for this occasion. Bright colors were considered a sin to Old Order Amish. How could Gott see color as a sin? Some of the limitations she lived under made no sense at all.
“We’re plain people, Sarah. Gott warned us against adorning ourselves and our lives with bright colors. They attract unwanted attention.” Marta straightened a white napkin and smiled at Sarah.
“I know what the Bishop says, Marta, but I think too many of our community rules are the Bishop’s rules and have nothing at all to do with what Gott wants. The older he gets, the more unbearable his ‘must not’s and should not’s’ get.”
“Everything looks good,” Marta said in a loud voice, drowning out Sarah’s last comment. Bishop Miller’s wife walked past and straightened several forks on the table close to Sarah.
Marta rushed back into the kitchen, her hand a stranglehold on Sarah’s wrist. “Do you think she heard you?”
“Who?”
“Bishop Miller’s wife.”
“I don’t care if she did.”
“Well, you should care. I know she’s a sweet old woman and always kind to me, but she tells her husband everything that goes on in the community, and you know it.”
Sarah shrugged and looked out the kitchen window, watching Mose approach the porch and settle in a chair too small for his big frame. Her future husband wore a pale blue shirt today, his blond hair damp from sweat and plastered down under his straw work hat. Beatrice left the small kinder’s table and crawled into her father’s lap, her arms sliding around the sweaty neck of his shirt.
“That child loves her daed.” Marta grabbed a pickle from one of the waiting plates of garnish.
“She does. It’s a shame she has nee mother to cuddle her.”
“I’m worried about you, Sarah. Lately all you do is daydream and mope.”
Sarah considered telling Marta her news but decided against it. Marta would never approve of a loveless marriage. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I like having the kinder here. They’ve brightened my spirits. I’ve never had a chance to really get close to a child before. They can make my day better with just a laugh. They are really into climbing, even Mercy. This morning I caught her throwing her leg over her cot rail. She could have fallen if I hadn’t been close enough to catch her. I’m going to see if someone has a bigger bed for her today. She’s way too active to manage in that small bed Daed found in the attic.”
Sarah grabbed two pitchers of cold milk and headed out the back door.
“Is there more food? These men are hungry.” Adolph grabbed Sarah by the arm as she passed through the door, his fingers pinching into her flesh.
“Ya, of course. I’ll bring out more.” She placed the pitchers on the table and returned the friendly smile Mose directed her way.
“See that you do,” her father barked, as if he were talking to a child. He moved down the table, greeting each worker with a handshake and friendly smile.
Sarah hurried into the kitchen and grabbed a plate of hot pancakes from the oven and rushed back out the kitchen door, a big jar of fresh, warmed maple syrup tucked under her arm. Her father was right about one thing. The men were eating like an army.
* * *
The last of the horse-drawn wagons carrying burned wood pulled out of the yard and down the lane, heading for the dump just outside town.
Mose grabbed the end of a twelve-foot board, pulled it over and nailed it into the growing frame with three strong swings of the hammer. A brisk breeze lifted the straw hat he wore, almost blowing it off his head. He smashed it down on his riot of curls and went back to work. The breeze was welcome on the unseasonably hot morning.
“Won’t be much longer now,” the man working next to Mose muttered. The board the man added would finish the last of the barn’s frame, and then the hard work of lifting the frames would begin.
Sweat-soaked and hungry, Mose glanced at the noon meal being served up a few yards away and saw Sarah carrying a plate piled high with potato pancakes. She’d been in and out of the house all morning, her face flushed from the heat of the kitchen. Beatrice trailed behind her, a skip in her steps and the small bowl of some type of chow-chow relish dripping yellow liquid down the front of her apron as she bounced.
He laughed to himself, taking pleasure in seeing Beatrice so content. Sarah had a natural way with kinder. She’d make a fine mother.
“Someone needs to deal with that woman.”
“Who?” Mose turned his head, surprised at the comment. He looked at the man who’d spoken and frowned. Standing with his hands on his hips, the man’s expression dug deep caverns into his face, giving Mose the impression of intense anger.
“The Widow Nolt, naturally. Who else? Everyone knows she killed Joseph with her neglect. Bishop Miller might as well shun her now and get it over with. No one wants her in the community anymore. She causes trouble and doesn’t know when to keep her mouth shut.”
Mose mopped at the sweat on his forehead. “What do you mean, she killed Joseph? There’s no way she’s capable of doing something like that. The police said he died of smoke inhalation.”
Stretching out his back and twisting, the man worked out the kinks from his tall frame, his eyes still on Sarah. “She did it, all right, bruder. She left the light on in the barn, knowing gas lights get hot and cause fires.”
“I’m sure she just forgot to turn it off. People forget, you know.” Mose knew he was wasting his breath. Some liked to think the worst of people, especially people like Sarah, who were powerless to defend themselves.
“Sarah Nolt is that kind of woman. Her own father says she’s always been careless, even as a child.”
“I believe Gott would have us pray for our sister, not slander her for something that took her husband’s life.”
“Well, you can stand up for her if you like, but I’m not. She’s a bad woman, and I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for my respect for Joseph. He was a good man.”
“He’d want you to help Sarah, not slander her.” Mose threw down the hammer. His temper would always be a fault he’d have to deal with, and right now he’d best move away or he’d end up punching a man in the mouth.
The food bell rang out. He dusted as much of the sawdust off his clothes as he could. Still angry, he moved toward the long table set up in the grass and took the seat closest to the door. A tall glass of cold water was placed in front of him by a young girl. “Danke.” He downed the whole glass.
“You’re welkom,” the girl muttered and refilled his glass. Mose watched Sarah as she served the men around him. She acted polite and kind to everyone, but not one man spoke to her. The women seemed friendlier but still somewhat distant. He saw her smile once or twice before he dug into his plate of tender roast beef, stuffed cabbage rolls and Dutch green beans. Sarah knew her way around a kitchen. The food he ate was hardy and spiced to perfection.
A group of men seated around the Bishop began