The Thorn Part 3

Honest I did ...

Mattie's expressions reminded her of the way she'd talked as a little girl. "It's all right - this time." She knelt beside the tub and reached her arms deep into the water, up past her elbows, letting the warmth and the suds soothe her as she washed Mattie's back.

"I go see Karen tomorrow," Mattie said, eyes wide. "My bestest friend."

"We need to get you to bed. You want to be wide-awake in the morning, don't you?" Nearly every other Tuesday for the past year, Mattie had spent most of the day with Hen's friend Diane and daughter, Karen, who was the same age as Mattie Sue. Two Fridays a month, Hen returned the favor and took Karen to give Diane a break, as well.

"Karen wants a hair bun like Auntie Rose's and Grandma Emma's."

Auntie . . . Grandma. Brandon had insisted Mattie call her Plain relatives by the English names.

"Did you tell Karen about your Amish relatives?"

Mattie nodded her head rambunctiously. "She doesn't know what a Kapp looks like up close," she said in her sweet little voice. "I tried to draw one, but it was too sloppy."

Mattie's remark reminded Hen of the verbal battles she'd had with Brandon over what was appropriate for Mattie Sue. Now that their daughter was older and more aware of what was going on around her, they'd had numerous arguments over worldly VHS tapes and, especially, MTV. Her husband definitely enjoyed his cable TV. Hen felt the pressure build whenever she thought of her precious girl growing up in such a sophisticated environment. I never once considered this when Brandon and I were dating - never cared about it.

The thought amazed her now. She certainly loved her husband, but she'd never thought there would be such a tug-of-war over their child's upbringing.

"Can I show Karen how to make a cradle like Uncle josh made for me?" Mattie's words broke through her musing.

"Out of wood?"

"No, cardboard." Mattie frowned, the sides of her mouth turned down, dismayed by Hen's distraction.

"Oh jah."

"Mommy?" Mattie giggled. "What'd you just say?"

She looked at her daughter, still immersed in the sudsy water.

"Did you mix up your other language again?"

Smiling, Hen picked up the washcloth and lathered it with soap to wash Mattie's face. "When you do something the same way for many years, it's hard to stop," she explained.

Mattie glanced at the door. "Is Daddy upset about my new bonnet?"

The question startled Hen. So the strained atmosphere between her and Brandon was affecting their daughter. But she absolutely refused to talk about Brandon in a negative way. "Daddy's just busy with his work, honey."

"His face looks sad sometimes." Mattie returned to playing in the bubbles.

Hen inhaled deeply. If Brandon was angry, she had been the one to trigger it. She probably shouldn't have gotten the black bonnet for Mattie Sue, but she could scarcely resist it. Knowing her husband, he'd be sure to bring it up again to her when they were alone.

"It's your fault we fight so much," he had said recently. Earlier tonight he'd said as much again with his eyes. Hen hadn't antic.i.p.ated how motherhood would change her priorities so profoundly.

She shook herself and pulled her arms out of the water. "Five more minutes, honey."

"Aw, can't I stay in longer?"

Mattie would beg and plead all night if Hen allowed it. Her daughter was not as submissive as she and Rose had been as children ... or their many brothers. There had been no back talking to "those who have the rule over you" without serious consequences. She'd heard the account of two of her brothers giving Dat some lip and quickly regretting it - rubbing their backsides through their work trousers - after a sound whipping behind the barn.

"You can stay in the tub longer another time," she told Mattie, getting up to reach for a towel.

"Daddy lets me - "

"Mattie Sue, not tonight."

Tears welled up in Mattie's big eyes. "Why not, Mommy?"

"Because I said so." Words Mamm used with Rose and me ...

Quickly, she added, "It's bedtime now."

"But, Mommy ..."

"No more whining. I'll come back and dry you off soon." Hen opened the door and stepped outside. There was no question in her mind: Her permissive husband had encouraged this sort of behavior in Mattie, as well as exposed her to all kinds of unG.o.dly "entertainment" right here in their own home. Where would it end?

She leaned her head against the wall, aware of Brandon's voice across the house. Something was "preposterous," he said. Then, finishing up his phone call, he concluded, "We'll talk more tomorrow."

Always the negotiator, she thought, going to Mattie's room for some clean pajamas. She remembered the Rainbow Brite nightshirt that got away, so to speak.. . the one Mattie had pleaded for at the mall with real tears. This was Hen's worry about planning playtime get-togethers with the Perlises' daughter - Mattie Sue was constantly being immersed into the worldly way of thinking. Even though she was just a little girl, Karen was obsessed with Barbie dolls, dressing them in outfits complete with skimpy underwear that made Hen cringe. Why wasn't little Karen more interested in Glo Worm or Strawberry Shortcake dolls instead?

It wasn't that Hen didn't enjoy Diane or having coffee in the Perlises' beautiful home. She also delighted in Mattie's gleeful excitement at seeing her little friend at the door. Even Brandon agreed it was a wonderful arrangement. Anything to keep our daughter away from her Plain cousins, she thought. Her husband was adamant that a conservative lifestyle wasn't for them.

But Brandon couldn't possibly know what Hen planned to do tomorrow during her free time. The mere thought of it gave her goose b.u.mps, even though she felt a bit hesitant, considering what was at stake.

She hurried back to Mattie Sue with the soft pink pajamas in hand, wondering what her father might think of her plan ... if he knew.

Rose kept to herself Tuesday afternoon, contemplating Silas's invitation as she carried buckets of fresh feed for the animals. With Mamm's cold worse today, she didn't see how she could accept it just yet, much as she wanted to. Perhaps things would look more promising in a day or two.

When her barn ch.o.r.es were done, she headed out to roam the pasture alongside one of her favorite horses, Alfalfa, enjoying the sunshine and the fresh smells of autumn in the air. She noticed the bishop and his son, Christian, and several of the bishop's sonsin-law digging potatoes within spitting distance of her father's pastureland.

Tomorrow I'll make scalloped potatoes for Mr. Browning - his favorite, she thought, anxious to see how the cuttings she'd made from some of her purple and pink African violets were faring. She was eager to bring some cheer to the dreary kitchen where the man spent most of his time. Although his wife had died several years ago, Rose was sure he was still in mourning. At times he even seemed to talk to his deceased wife while he sat in his usual spot, smack-dab in the doorway between the kitchen and front room.

If she were an Englischer, she'd definitely spruce up that kitchen of his. Give the walls a nice, soft coat of yellow paint, for one thing. Since starting to work there three weeks ago, Rose had pondered multiple ways to open up the gloomy abode with additional light. "Like Hen's wonderful-gut kitchen," she caught herself saying. Oh, she could only dream of ever having such a fine place to cook and bake!

Laughing at herself, Rose herded two of the horses into the barn for grooming. By currying at least two each afternoon, she could squeeze it in between her other ch.o.r.es, especially if Nick helped, too. But so far today, he was busy checking the hanging harnesses for any weak points, as Dat had directed. One of their neighbors, another farmer, had broken down on the road early that morning for just that reason, Dat had reported.

Rose was especially careful with the oldest horse as she moved the rubber curry brush from the neck down to the rear, working most gently on the back and shoulders. She had to watch where she stood when brushing this one, not wanting to get kicked, which had happened to several of her brothers. Clumsy Mose was especially a target for this horse's kicking.

Thinking suddenly of Christian, she was reminded of his rude treatment of Nick. He'd never seemed so unkind to anyone else, including his nieces and nephews. She was still captivated by last night's stories, especially the one about the floodwaters - and frogs and fish - seeping into Gilbert Browning's house. She'd even had trouble concentrating on her library book last night as she recalled the bishop's grandson's peculiar tale.

Was it just made up?

Tomorrow she hoped to ask Mr. Browning about the flood to see what he remembered. That is, if he managed to stay awake long enough. Most of the time when she was there, Gilbert sat stiffly in his chair, puffing on his pipe till he fell into a sleepy stupor - twice he hadn't even known when she'd finished up for the day. Since he left her day's pay in bills sticking out of a ledger on the little table in the corner of the kitchen, there was no need to awaken him to say good-bye. Still, she wondered what made him so tired. Was he depressed, perhaps because of his grief?

Nick sneezed loudly across the barn, where he was sweeping with an old push broom.

"Blessings on ya," she said.

Nick scratched his dark head beneath the rim of his straw hat. "Ya know, I never once heard that ... not before comin' here." He moved toward her.

"Well, lots of folk say it."

He was silent for a moment, then added, "I sure never heard my dad say anything like that." He looked at her. "Don't think I ever heard him pray, neither."

His comment stopped her short. He talked only occasionally about his parents. Rose was wary, not wanting to mention something offhand when he looked so serious. "Pardon my askin', but did your folks ever have a say about where you lived ... when ya came here?"

He reached for a dandy brush and began to groom a horse. "I doubt it. My dad was long gone by then - left my mom and me when I was little. Might be why Mom drank so much."

She'd a.s.sumed his birth parents had no Plain family roots. But she knew little about the private agency that had placed Nick with the bishop and had supervised him only minimally till Nick turned eighteen. The way she'd heard it, the bishop had gone clear over to Philly to handpick a boy who was considered most needy.

She wondered sometimes if Nick still thought of himself as an outsider amongst the People. He so rarely shared anything personal. At least not verbally. His eyes, well ... it was downright uncanny how he expressed his thoughts with a brooding gaze. As for her, there were plenty of occasions when she'd talked his ear off. Moments when she considered him a right good friend, or nearly like a cousin. Then, other times, he acted like the worst ever brother, ignoring her completely - or tormenting the daylights out of her.

"Do you ever hear from your mother?"

He drew a quick breath. "Before I left, she said she'd come get me one day ... when she got herself sober." Tugging on his gray shirt sleeve, he looked down at his scuffed-up work boots. "Still waitin' for that."

"Ach, Nick. Surely she'll come." If she promised.

He brought up the family meeting last night, at the bishop's. "I was there only a short time before I was asked to leave. Kinda like the meetin' last week," he said more softly.

Rose listened, feeling sorry for him.

"As for my real dad, I doubt he even cares where I am." Nick's voice sounded empty. "From what Bishop tells me."

Rose curled her toes inside her old black boots. How awful sad!

"Will you continue to stay on with the bishop's family, then?" she asked.

He fingered the dandy brush in his hand. "Hard to know what to do, really." He raised his head and looked her square in the face.

"Don't forget, they're your family, too." She sighed and glanced in the direction of the farmhouse, remembering what Christian had blurted out to him yesterday. "Actually, if ya think about it, all the People are." She hoped and prayed Nick might sometime accept the bishop as his father.

"Time I make my own way," he said flatly. "My own choices, too." Nick blew out his breath and looked away just that quick, like he'd told her too much.

"Well, Christian's a church member, though he still works at home - and sometimes over here, too," she pointed out.

"He'll be getting his own place soon enough. Wait and see."

"Get himself hitched, ya mean?"

"I doubt he's found his girl yet." Nick paused, then handed her the stiff-bristled dandy brush to flick the dirt out of the horse's thick hair. "Here," he said, "you'll be needin' this next."

She stooped to put the rubber curry brush on the floor, away from the feeding trough. It was a mystery to her and everyone why Nick had stayed on at the bishop's after his eighteenth birthday. And since he hadn't yet become a church member, she wondered if he was thinking of returning to the English world from whence he'd come. There had been talk amongst some of the older folk that he was a bad seed. And there was Mamm's worry that his Plainness had been for the bishop's benefit all these years. Still, Nick hadn't caused any real trouble, as far as Rose knew.

She brushed the horse more vigorously now. If Christian hoped to keep working for his bishop father till he married, could Nick do the same? If so, he ought to start attending the Sunday Singings again, instead of riding horses with her. She'd only seen him once with a girl at the youth gatherings in the few times he'd gone.

I'm more sociable than he is, even being stuck at home with Mamm these months!

She considered Nick's willingness to share openly with her today. It made her sad to think his father had been so disinterested as to run off like that. Nick's solemn eyes and downturned mouth revealed that he'd never recovered.

Nick waved as he headed off to another part of the stable area, and she offered a smile.

"Goodness, I need to hurry 'n' finish up," she whispered, suddenly remembering her mother, who would be awakening from her long afternoon nap about now.

There were times when she tucked Mamm in for a nap and slipped out to tend to the animals that she almost forgot her mother's plight ... and how it affected all of them.

Being the main caretaker had been more difficult than Rose antic.i.p.ated, and she'd chafed against the fear that she might miss out on getting married. The fact that Silas Good had bided his time gave her more than a single ray of hope.

Solomon and the bishop were in the woodworking shop, leaning over the workbench, talking about ordering a small load of horse manure for their vegetable gardens. The bishop suggested they go up to White Oak Road themselves and help to load it.

"How'd last night's family meeting go?" Sol asked.

Bishop Aaron shook his head. "Not so gut."

As familiar with Nick as he was, Sol didn't think one iota less of the bishop for voicing this.

"The whole situation really wore on me yesterday. So much so that I crept into Nick's room last night ... stood there in the dark at the foot of his bed," Aaron said. "A terrible temptation came over me - one I'd never experienced before."

"Oh?"

"It was all I could do to keep from going over there, while he lay sound asleep, and cutting that scandalous ponytail off his head!"

Sol was downright startled. Bishop Aaron had always seemed to be a tolerant father. "How'd ya keep from doin' it?" he asked.

"Gritted my teeth, that's what ... and turned away from the pull of righteous indignation." The bishop's face was stern.

"What would cuttin' off Nick's long hair accomplish?"

The bishop nodded slowly and tugged on his suspenders. "That's just what I asked myself in bed later. What gut would it do?"

Sol thought on that. "You've always treated Nick as your own."

Bishop looked at him askance. "Well, how else would I treat a boy who's been with us all these years?" Then, with a thoughtful sigh, he added, "Who the Lord handpicked to come here ... and who I'd always hoped to adopt."

Solomon felt sorry he'd uttered a word.

Scuffing his feet on the woodshop floor, Aaron admitted it wasn't easy to live with such a defiant boy.

Pulling his pencil from behind his ear, Sol asked, "You ever ask Nick to cut his hair, in accordance with the Ordnung?"

"Oh, more times than I can count."

"Well, what's he say?"

"Nothin' ... just shrugs and keeps on working."

"What if Barbara asked him?"