Cheryl Williford - Her Secret Amish Child

Surely the money she had squirreled away would be enough to make rent payments until she could find a part-time job and someone safe to leave Benuel with. Maybe there would be enough left over for a few pieces of secondhand furniture. When they had left Ohio, she had taken nothing but their clothes and a few of Benuel’s favorite toys. She pushed away her reasons for leaving the farm, unwilling to bring back the harsh memories that haunted her unguarded sleep each night.

Gott’s will be done. He had brought them back to Pinecraft, to the Plain people she’d grown up with, and she was grateful to be home.

* * *

At noon on Monday, Fredrik leaned his old bike against an orange tree and turned on his heel, ready to begin his search for a wife in the crowd of Amish women standing around, chatting.

After seeing Lizbeth Mullet wearing a pretty blue dress at church the day before, and hearing two pastors preach on the joys of married life, he’d lost sleep that night, tossing and turning, but managed to make a firm decision. It was time to forget Bette, who had accepted his proposal and then run off and wed his best friend in Lancaster County, where Fredrik was completing his apprenticeship. He would buy Ulla’s house and settle down. It shouldn’t be too hard to find someone to marry him. Perhaps Lizbeth Mullet would consider him and if not her, someone else just as comely. Whoever he chose, though, would have to understand that theirs would be only a friendly partnership. An attempt at showing the community—and himself—that he could grow and become responsible. He’d never give another woman his heart after the way Bette had stomped on it.

The woman he married would have to be patient, accept him as he was. He wasn’t exactly sure how much he could change his youthful ways, but almost killing a child had affected him deeply. It was past time he stopped behaving like a youngie and got on with his life.

He ambled across the dry park grass, over to the food tables and joined his boss, Mose. The square-shouldered Amish man greeted him with a nod of his head and then filled one side of his sturdy paper plate with fried chicken. He inched his way forward, toward a bowl of hot potato salad decorated with perfect slices of boiled eggs and olives.

“You’re late. You almost missed out on my Sarah’s specialty,” Mose said, adding an extra helping of the creamy potatoes to his too-full plate. “It’s almost gone.”

“I see that,” Fredrik smiled and took the last of the potato salad with a half-moon of boiled egg buried on top.

“You oversleep?”

Fredrik cleared his throat before speaking. “No, I had to pay a traffic ticket. No insurance.”

Glancing back, Mose said, “Is this one of your yarns?”

Fredrik glanced up. “Nee, I’m not joking.”

“Then what do you mean? The police don’t give tickets for bike riding.”

Fredrik lumbered close behind Mose, both men still circling around the table laden with food. “I wasn’t exactly riding a bike.” He reached across the table for three meaty ribs shining with barbecue sauce. He added a forkful of pickles as an afterthought and then speared a meaty chicken leg covered in crispy fried batter.

Together they headed for the drinks table, and stood in a line with community leaders and hardworking Plain men waiting for a cold glass of sweet tea. The big oak tree draped with moss spared them the bright overhead sun.

Fredrik had hoped to speak privately with Mose, but the park grounds were already packed with people supporting the lunch that would bring in enough money to pay for the new roof on the church.

Fredrik frowned, not liking the idea of someone from the congregation overhearing what a fool he’d been. In Pinecraft, simple situations were known to grow into full-blown gossip sessions, innocent words passed on from family to family until the truth could barely be recognized.

Balancing his tall glass of tea and a few napkins against his chest, Fredrik followed close behind Mose.

“What were you riding, a golf cart?”

“No, a scooter.” He waited for the critical remark he knew was coming. Acting as his mentor and older brother, Mose had warned him about leaning too close to Englischer ways, but Fredrik had prayed about buying the scooter and Gott had remained silent. Fredrik had taken His silence as approval, and he’d been wrong.

“Were you speeding?” Mose’s brow arched as he placed his glass of tea on a cloth-covered picnic table and slid his plate in front of it.

Fredrik joined him at the table and smiled at Sarah, Mose’s fraa, as she kissed her husband fondly on the forehead, then hurried off, pushing a twin stroller of chubby kinner. A curly-haired toddler followed her, tugging at the back of her skirt. “Sarah’s looking well rested. The twins must be sleeping through the night at last.”

The big blond-haired man wasn’t smiling. “Don’t change the subject. You’ll have to tell me sometime. Are you hiding a secret about this scooter you borrowed?”

“I didn’t borrow the scooter. It’s mine. I picked it up the other day. That’s why I was late to work.” Fredrik took a gulp of tea and sat the sweating glass back on the table.

“Ya, well. You said you were buying one with your savings, but didn’t you know you’d need insurance for the thing?”

Fredrik nodded. “I did know, but I got ticketed before I could get the insurance.” He paused to pray silently over his food and then shoveled in a mouthful of potato salad and chewed as he thought back to the day of the accident. An image of the pretty widow came back to haunt him. If only he could get her and her son off his mind. He pictured them round-eyed with worried looks. Were they still traumatized by his stupidity? He hoped not.

“Well, it makes me to wonder if you should have prayed more about this magnificent piece of machinery of yours,” Mose said after he’d prayed. “Perhaps Gott isn’t pleased with your purchase and is letting you tie a rope around your neck.” Mose flashed a sardonic smile that showed a piece of mustard green stuck to the front of his tooth. The man bent forward and went back to attacking his food.

“Ya, you might be right.” Fredrik nodded. “Nothing gut has come from the purchase.” The other side of their picnic table was still empty. Now was as good a time as any to speak to Mose. He blurted out the lines he had practiced. “You think there’s any chance I could get a church loan for a down payment on Ulla’s house?”

Mose laid down his fork. “Ya, sure. We have money set aside for such as this. Ulla’s house would make a fine house for a young man like yourself. There’s plenty of room for a fraa and kinner.” He smiled, probably expecting his words to unsettle the unmarried man. “I’m sure she’ll sell it to you. She has no use for it now. Let’s walk over by the river and talk for a moment.”

Throwing his paper plate into the trash for the flies to buzz around, Fredrik ambled alongside Mose, his mind racing.

Houses in Pinecraft seldom came up for sale since they were usually passed on from family member to family member. When they were put on the market, they were too dear for most young people. Perhaps Mose could convince Ulla to sell the house to him at a reasonable price.

“So, you’re finally ready to marry,” Mose said, stopping to sit at an old picnic table close to the river.

Fredrik followed his lead and sat. “Ya.” He’d never experienced being tongue-tied in his life, but it seemed he couldn’t get his words to untangle on his tongue to form a complete sentence. “I...” he said and hiccupped from a nervous stomach. He groaned silently and then plunged on, forcing the words out. “Before we talk about the loan, I need to tell you I had an accident on the scooter the first day it was mine.” There! The words were out.