Greta stepped onto the porch landing next to her. “He’s watching you,” she whispered.
Hilda Yoder cleared her throat. “We have more work to do,” she instructed with a glance at John and then a lift of her eyebrows to Lydia. “Greta, take this mop bucket and get us some clean rinse water.”
“I’ll do it,” Lydia said firmly. Greta had no business hauling buckets of water up and down that steep staircase.
“I hardly think that...” Hilda began but then pressed her lips into a thin line and said no more.
Lydia handed the rag rug to Greta and took the bucket. She descended the stairs without looking at John, but she knew he was following her every move. Dumping the soapy water, she set the bucket aside and prepared to prime the pump until the faucet spit out fresh water. Above her she knew Hilda Yoder was watching with disapproval. She saw John leap down from the loading dock and walk slowly toward her. She could not help feeling a little like the sandpiper she’d once seen caught in a fisherman’s abandoned net at the beach.
She reached for the pump handle but John was there first, his fingers closing around the handle and brushing hers. “Let me,” he said softly. Lydia snatched her hand away as if she’d gotten too close to a hot stove. Then, not knowing what else she might do, she looked away while he primed the pump until the faucet squirted clear water into the pail.
Without a word he carried the full, heavy pail up the steps and set it on the landing careful to keep his eyes lowered so as not to give offense to any of the women Hilda had herded quickly inside. His delivery complete, he hurried back down the steps, past Lydia, who had waited in the yard, and back to the loading dock where he turned his back to them and began sorting through a lumber pile of mixed-size pieces.
“That man has been too much out in the world,” Hilda Yoder huffed as Lydia mounted the steps and all the women went back to their work.
“It may take him some time to settle back into the old ways,” Pleasant said with a glance at Gert, who was clearly embarrassed by her nephew’s action. “After all, he has been eight years in their world. Still, the important thing is that he has seen the error of his youthful decision and come home to us.”
There was a general murmur of agreement among the women. But Lydia had her doubts that John would ever truly return to their ways. The only reason he’d come back now was because he’d clearly had nowhere else to turn. In Celery Fields he could be assured of forgiveness and the care of the community. From what she knew of outsiders, they were not quite so generous to those who were down on their luck. No, she knew John Amman perhaps better than any of them or, at least, she had once a long time ago. It simply was not possible for a man to change so completely, was it? To have finally learned his lesson and abandoned the wanderlust of his youth? To be satisfied at last with the quiet, simple life of his Amish roots?
“Hilda, you don’t think there’s any possibility for someone to vote against him tomorrow, do you?” Greta asked, her eyes wide with worry.
“John Amman has sought his forgiveness from Bishop Troyer,” Pleasant reminded Greta. “We will wait to hear his recommendation tomorrow.”
“Nevertheless, the congregation has to be unified in its acceptance,” Hilda reminded them. Lydia saw Gert Hadwell press her fist to her mouth. She hoped, for Gert’s sake, that Hilda had not got it into her head to vote against John. Not that she would put it past the older woman. Hilda saw herself as carrying the standard for what was right in their small community. In many ways her opinion carried almost as much weight as the bishop’s.
But to Lydia’s relief Hilda positioned herself next to Gert in a gesture that could only be read as one of support as she glanced around the room. “I think we have done as best we can here.”
Gert smoothed the quilt on the bed and nodded. “It does look nice,” she said with a smile. “Perhaps,” she added wistfully, “with such nice quarters John will find his peace here.”
“Well, I’ll say one thing,” Pleasant announced. “It smells a good deal better than it did when we came in.”
All the women laughed as they gathered their supplies and trooped down the outside steps to the yard below.
All except Lydia.
She lingered to wipe the oilcloth that covered the small wooden table and glance around the room one last time. She told herself she was only making sure they had left none of their cleaning supplies behind. But she knew better.
In spite of the aroma of the strong lye soap they’d used, offset by the sweetness of the furniture wax, John’s essence filled the space. And as she closed the door behind her she recalled the scent of John—the sheer warmth of his nearness when he’d bent to take the bucket from her. A memory stirred, of him standing so close to her one time when they had gone to the beach together. That day he had smelled of the sun and the sea. And that was the day they had shared their first kiss. They had been fourteen years old.
A lifetime ago, she thought, shaking off the memory as she followed the others down the steps and into the lane where they said their goodbyes. Greta glanced back at her. “Coming to the house, sister?” she called.
“I’m a little tired,” Lydia replied. “You go on.” She was aware that John had paused in the sorting of the wood the minute she spoke. He did not turn around, but everything about his posture told her he was listening.
Greta hesitated then nodded. “All right. See you tomorrow then.”
Ah, yes, tomorrow. First, the services where John will no doubt be fully embraced back into the community. After all, forgiveness is the very foundation of our Amish faith. And later Samuel’s birthday party, Lydia thought. And John would be there for all of it. She drew in a deep breath and forced a smile. It had already been a long and difficult day but the events scheduled for Sunndaag promised to test her even further. “Yah, tomorrow,” she replied.
* * *
On Sunday morning John was awake well before dawn. He lay on the narrow bed beneath two faded hand-stitched quilts and thought about the bed he’d slept in as a boy in a room shared by his three brothers. Where were they now? Married with families of their own? And his sisters? He tried to imagine them all grown-up.
And his parents. Dat. Maemm. Did they think of him? Speak of him?
He rolled onto his side and watched the rays of sun creep through the window that looked out onto Lydia’s property, and his thoughts turned to the day before him. He was confident that the congregation would vote to accept the bishop’s recommendation of forgiveness. But what about Lydia?
So far she had given not the slightest sign that once the bann was lifted she would be willing to resume the friendship they’d once shared. If he was going to live here they would be neighbors at the very least. And, given the way the community’s population had shrunk over the years, they could hardly avoid spending time in each other’s company from time to time. There would be gatherings where they would both be present, like the birthday party for Greta and Luke’s oldest child. Maybe once the bann was lifted Lydia Goodloe would meet his eyes instead of averting her gaze. Or would she? He was certain that part of the way she’d been acting had to do with her thinking she would never see him again. And now that he was here she had no idea what to do.
Well, by this time tomorrow—in fact by later this very evening, when they all gathered at Luke and Greta’s for supper, he would have made clear that she could no longer use the excuse of his shunning for refusing to talk to him. The congregation would vote to accept Bishop Troyer’s recommendation for forgiveness and full reinstatement, for that was the way of his people. They would vote in his favor for his aunt’s sake even if they still had doubts about him. He had missed the traditions of his faith; never in all the years he was gone had he once been tempted to follow the faith of outsiders. Without question there were any number of good and pious people out there, but their ways were far too complicated for John to fully grasp. He liked the simple ways of his own people.