Six
Nathan Fisher paid no attention when the late model sedan drove up his driveway. English folks often pulled into the yard to ask directions or to see if they were selling eggs, cheese, or garden produce. Once an elderly Englischer asked if he had any cuckoo clocks for sale. When he had been dumbfounded by the question, the woman explained that because the Amish originally came from Switzerland, she thought he might have maintained an old-country trade.
Cuckoo clocks. Just when you think you have heard it all.
Whoever this person was, most likely he or she would soon leave when no one came out with things for sale. He had chores to do. His recently baled hay needed to be stacked in the barn loft out of the weather. Cows needed milking and garden vegetables were ready to be picked. Although Ruth had managed their garden on her own, he couldn’t expect his aunt to keep house, cook meals, care for his son, and do outdoor chores too. He needed to do more than his share because she owed him no lifetime commitment. Besides, he couldn’t drop what he was doing in his present condition. He was dirty from head to toe and probably smelled worse than their sow after a roll in fresh mud.
Pulling on the rope with all his strength, Nathan raised another pile of bales up to the loft. Two more loads and his latest cutting of hay should be finished. He would cover the remaining bales with plastic and leave them outdoors to supplement pasture grass for the next few weeks.
“Hello? Mr. Fisher?” A female voice called from the barn doorway.
Nathan clenched down on his back teeth. “Jah, I’m Nathan Fisher, but I’m busy right now. We have no eggs for sale if that’s why you’re here. And if you’re collecting donations, my aunt’s up at the house. Tell her there’s some money in the canister by the door.”
The woman chuckled, stepping inside rather than going on her way. “I’ll remember that come time for the March of Dimes drive, but today I’m not soliciting money. I’m here to talk to you.”
He glanced over his shoulder at her from the ladder. The woman was as skinny as a fence pole, with curly yellow hair standing out from her head like a lion’s mane. But her manner of dress was all business—gray suit, white blouse, and high-heeled shoes. As Nathan stared, she ventured deeper into the barn. “Careful there, ma’am, in those fancy shoes. There are things in here you do not want to step in.”
She instantly stood still. “Right, then. I’ll wait for you outside in the shade.” She pivoted and headed to the pasture fence, where low dog-wood trees offered cool relief.
Because she did not appear to be leaving, Nathan had little choice but to tie off the pulley rope, wipe his dirty hands on a rag, and walk out into the oppressively hot sunshine. He shielded his eyes from the glare. “What can I do for you, Miss…”
“Mrs. Patricia Daly,” she said, digging in her purse. “I’m a social worker with Children’s Services. I’m here to make a home inspection regarding the care of an infant, Abraham Fisher.” She smiled pleasantly and held out her identification card from a brown wallet.
He blinked once or twice like an owl. “What kind of inspection?”
She slipped the wallet back into her shoulder bag. “Just routine. Nothing to worry about. Your son was admitted to the hospital for observation following your wife’s passing. In these situations, the case is assigned to Children’s Services. A follow-up visit is scheduled to make sure the baby is receiving proper care and nutrition. And please accept my deepest sympathy for your loss.”
What she just said took a moment to sink in, but when it did Nathan felt his back go rigid. “You’ve come to check if I’m feeding my boy?”
“Put in those terms my job sounds awful, doesn’t it? And I am sure you’re taking fine care of your son, Mr. Fisher, but not everyone, especially not every widower, faced with so enormous an undertaking rises to the occasion.”
Nathan shifted his weight and tucked his hands under his suspenders. “You would be better off speaking plain English, ma’am, so I don’t misunderstand your meaning.”
She nodded after a moment’s thought. “Some fathers looking after a baby alone for the first time don’t care for them properly. They don’t change diapers often enough or maybe they can’t handle a fussy eater. My job, my responsibility, is to the children of this county—Amish or English. I’ve been sent to observe Abraham and fill out a report.” She pulled out a pad on a clipboard from her leather bag and stared at him with more determination than he’d ever seen in a woman.
He looked away to gaze at the sow slumbering in her pen as her tiny piglets nursed in a neat row. “All right, then. Had I known you were coming, I would have made myself more presentable. I wouldn’t walk downwind of me on the way to the house, if you take my meaning.” She laughed much too loudly. “I do, but don’t worry, Mr. Fisher. I’m not here to describe you in my report, only your son. And we’re required to make our assessment visits unannounced.”
“So nobody puts on a dog and pony show just for your benefit?” He sounded caustic and hadn’t meant to. This Englischer was just doing her job and he had no cause to be surly. He’d heard that some folks didn’t take good care of their kinner, but thought none of them were Amish.
Mrs. Daly didn’t seem to mind. “That’s right. Some people clean up their act when somebody’s watching but go right back to their neglectful ways once my tires hit the pavement.”
As they walked toward the house, the social worker gave him a wide berth, and then she paused at the porch steps.
“Go in,” he said. “The door’s open.”
She went up the steps, pushed open the screen door, and entered his kitchen. Iris had opened every window and door in the house, and a battery fan rotated on the countertop. The room smelled of ripe peaches and brown sugar.
“Hello. Come on in,” said Iris, glancing up with flour dusting her cheeks and nose. “I’m baking peach pies before my fruit turns mushy. You’re right on time. The first batch is ready to come from the oven.”
Mrs. Daly took in the entire kitchen with a quick, perusing glance. “I don’t want to interrupt what you’re doing, and you might not want to offer pie when you know why I’m here.” She introduced herself and then repeated everything she’d explained to Nathan by the barn, omitting the reference to a dog and pony show.
Iris listened wide eyed and bewildered. “Do you think we would let a man fend for a baby by himself?” Her tone betrayed how ridiculous she found the idea. “Amish men don’t know much about infants, and they don’t have time to sit around reading books sent home by the hospital.” She talked over her shoulder while washing her hands. “That’s what his family and the community is for. And if he didn’t have me, some other woman in the district would have stepped in to help.” She dried her hands and then offered one to shake. “I’m his aunt, Iris Fisher.”
“I’m pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise, I’m sure. Why don’t you have a seat?” Iris pointed toward the end of the table not covered with baking supplies. “And that’s I-R-I-S for your report.” She nodded at Mrs. Daly’s clipboard.
Patricia grinned and lowered herself into a chair. “Let me write that down right now. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you some questions.”
Iris supplied Patricia with her permanent address, an emergency contact phone number, and the expressed assurance that she would remain in Nathan’s home for as long as she was needed. Mrs. Daly wrote fast and asked few questions because Iris volunteered plenty of information.
Nathan stood in the doorway watching the interview like a reluctant bystander. Fancy-dressed Englischers made him nervous. The only Englischers he could relax around wore bib overalls, Carhartt jackets, and ball caps advertising a particular brand of tractors.
After a short while, Mrs. Daly glanced up at him. “If I can see little Abraham, I won’t take up too much more of your valuable time.”
“Sure thing,” crowed Iris. “Just follow me. He’s asleep in the front room because the kitchen gets stuffy on baking days.”
Nathan watched the social worker trail after his aunt, subtly peering left and right to see if any wild beasts lurked in dark corners or if other hidden dangers waited to befall an innocent baby. He followed after them, too nervous to return to his chores. What would happen if this overdressed inspector saw something she didn’t like? Would she snatch up Abraham and run out the door to her car, maybe sticking a receipt in his mailbox like an English dry cleaners? He wouldn’t take his eyes off her until she left his property.
“There he is.” Iris pointed toward the bay window. “Inspect all you want.”
Mrs. Daly peeked into a portable crib where the baby slept in blissful repose. The bed had a wind-up mechanism that would rock back and forth, usually long enough to put the tyke to sleep. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “He is a handsome boy.”
“Of course, he is. He’s a Fisher, ain’t he?” Iris grinned at Nathan over Mrs. Daly’s head.
“I’m very sorry, little Abe, but I must lift you out of there.” She reached beneath the lightweight blanket.
“You’re going to wake him?” Iris didn’t sound pleased.
“Have to, I’m afraid. I must estimate his length and weight to make sure he’s gaining weight as he should be. Also, I need to check him for diaper rash.”
“Diaper rash?” Iris’ pique rang out loud and clear. “He doesn’t have diaper rash!”
When Mrs. Daly lifted the baby free of the swinging contraption and pulled off his covering, Abraham began to wail with indignation.
“Now you’ve done it,” said Iris. “I’ll fetch a fresh diaper so you can make yourself useful while inspecting his bottom.” Off she hurried, leaving the social worker cooing and jiggling the boppli like a proud grandparent.
“I’ll be on the porch if you have more questions for me.” Nathan marched off without waiting for her response. This was a woman’s affair, if it was anybody’s business at all. He couldn’t believe his tax dollars paid a person’s salary to check baby bottoms for a living.
Pouring a cup of coffee, he drank it cold on the porch glider. The longer he rocked, the more irritated he became. What right did the government have sticking their noses in how Amish families raised their kinner? Didn’t he already have enough folks looking over his shoulder, making sure he didn’t paint his barn too bright a color or attach too flashy a battery light to his buggy? He also had the rules of the Ordnung and his Bible—the Word of God had never led him astray before. Why did a fancy-dressed woman in high heels have to come snooping around his barn, his home, and his son? Nathan exhaled through his nostrils like an angry bull denied access to a spring pasture. And he hadn’t cooled off much by the time the nosy woman bustled back to the porch alone. His aunt must have returned to her chores.
Mrs. Daly beamed at him as though they were long-lost friends. “There you are, Mr. Fisher. Your Aunt Iris is a delightful woman. I sampled her pie and thought it could win blue ribbons. You and Abraham are fortunate to have her.”
He rose to his feet, never comfortable sitting if a woman stood before him. “Jah, that we are.” He pulled his beard slowly and waited.
“Your son looks perfectly healthy. I left the card of a local pediatrician on the table. He’ll need a medical checkup down the road. Shall we say at six months, if not sooner?”
“Okay, we’ll take care of it.” He clasped his hands together behind his back for something to do with them. After an uncomfortable pause, he asked, “Was there something else you needed to know about Abraham? What arrangements we’ve made for his schooling?”
She looked anxious. “No, not about the baby. I was just wondering how you were doing.” She met his gaze and held it.
“Me? I’m eating fine. Iris is a good cook, if you’re worried about my size and weight.” He almost added something about his lack of diaper rash but caught himself in time. That would have been inappropriate.
Mrs. Daly hefted the strap of her bag higher up on her shoulder with a smile. “I’m not inquiring about your physical state, Mr. Fisher. I’m concerned about your mental outlook since your wife’s unexpected passing.”
He narrowed his gaze. “Wayne County wants to know about my mental state?”
“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not approaching this correctly.” She pulled a business card from her jacket pocket and held it out to him. “In my spare time I’m a lay minister for my Christian church in Wooster, and I’m a trained counselor. I conduct grief therapy sessions in my home for those like you who have lost spouses. I’d like to invite you—”
He interrupted her. “I’m a farmer and Amish, in case you haven’t noticed. I don’t have time to sit around somebody’s living room sipping tea and telling folks how much I miss my wife. Plain folks don’t question the will of God. We go about our business and mourn our loved ones in private. You Englischers love to chaw everything to death. And you probably don’t feel much better once you’re done pouring your guts out to each other.”
If she had been shocked by his outburst, she hid it well. “Coffee,” she said.
He glanced back at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“We usually drink coffee sitting around my living room, not tea. And you’re right—sometimes we don’t feel any better after sharing our grief.” She waited until he met her gaze. “But every now and then we do.” She put the card on the plastic table. “Tuck this into a kitchen drawer for now, just in case you change your mind.” She started down the steps toward the driveway. “Oh, I almost forgot. Abraham looks healthy and robust, and the home you and your aunt have provided is more than adequate. That’s what I intend to say in my report. I commend your care and diligence.” She nodded, strode to her car, and drove away with barely a stirring of driveway dust.
Nathan sat on the porch glider and began to rock. He stared down at floorboards in dire need of paint, not feeling the least bit caring or diligent.
Daniel Graber spent the night in his buggy, parked behind the Wayne County jail. He didn’t want to miss visiting hours for those awaiting trial. With Catherine home watching the kinner and Isaiah to tend to his chores, he was able to see Abigail. Never had he missed his wife as much as during the previous week. He didn’t think it possible to miss a person so much. He’d come to Wooster yesterday, tied up in the back parking lot, fed his horse hay and a bucket of oats he’d brought from home, and filled another bucket with water from plastic jugs. Arrangements for him weren’t quite so luxurious. He ate his meal cold from a small cooler and slept curled up under a blanket behind the seat. Today his back rebelled with painful spasms from his cramped sleeping position.
Daniel washed his hands and face in the public washroom and then found a vending machine to buy coffee. After inserting a dollar, he pushed the button and waited. When the cup fell crookedly, the stream of hot liquid missed by a quarter inch. He tried again with a second bill and burned his fingers correcting the cup’s position.
The morning was not off to an auspicious start. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he hadn’t begun with prayers of thanksgiving or pleas for guidance. With hat in hand, Daniel waited in line for the appointed hour. When the door opened at the appointed time, a guard with a clipboard asked his name and then pointed across the room. Midway down a table sat Abby, so still that pigeons might have mistaken her for a statue if this had been a park.
Daniel saw something that turned his blood cold—they hadn’t allowed his wife to keep her traditional Amish outfit of a navy blue dress with white apron and kapp. To be seen in public in the atrocious green, mannish clothes must cause her unbearable discomfort and shame. As he approached, she glanced up with an expression of both joy and sorrow. Dark hollows lay beneath her eyes, and she appeared at least five pounds thinner.
“Guder mariye, ehemann. You look like you slept in your clothes.” The corner of her mouth turned up in a familiar and heartening smile.
“Good morning to you, fraa. That’s because I did. I drove here yesterday so I wouldn’t miss visiting hours.”
“You came by horse and buggy?” She lifted an eyebrow. “You should have called the hired van. There’s extra money in the coffee can in the cupboard for occasions like this.”
For occasions like this? “I doubt you had planned to use your egg money for visiting day at the county jail.” He glanced nervously around the room at the odd assortment of humanity.
“No one plans for emergencies, no matter what their nature.”
“True enough, but let’s not quibble about nonsense on our first meeting.” He reached for her hand. “How are you faring, Abby? Are they treating you well?”
She allowed her hand to be enfolded with little response. “Jah, I’m fine. The lady guard is nice to me. She explains how things are done here so I won’t be unduly shocked.” She inhaled and exhaled with practiced control.
“Anything else?” he asked, desperate to understand what had transpired since her arrest.
Her face turned pale. “They took my photo, Daniel. I ask them not to, but they said it was mandatory. Then they fingerprinted me and took away my clothes and worldly possessions, including my kapp.” Her fingers reached up to her uncovered head.
She shook her head, as though dislodging an unpleasant thought. “At least they let me keep my Bible, so I started reading the Old Testament. Did you know that the first chapter of Exodus talks about midwives? Pharaoh, king of Egypt, had enslaved the Hebrews. When he grew concerned about their increasing numbers, he ordered the midwives to kill the male children. Because the midwives feared God more than Pharaoh, they refused and were rewarded for their faith. Later, when the Hebrews continued to multiply, Pharaoh ordered every boy to be thrown into the Nile. Baby Moses was placed in a basket and sent downriver and saved by Pharaoh’s daughter. She adopted him as her own son. Much later, he led his people out of bondage into the promised land.”
Daniel blinked several times. “You’ve been locked away from your family for days and you wish to tell me Bible stories?”
Abby’s eyes filled with tears. “If I start asking about Laura and Jake, if I hear they have missed me and suffer because of my absence, then I’ll go mad. I must stay strong by distracting myself from the circumstances and using my time wisely.” She swiped at her face with her sleeve. “Tell me that my sister has arrived and cares for my family.”
“Jah, Catherine has come to look after our young ones, but she’s not…you.”
“No, I suppose not. Each woman has her own way of cooking, baking, and ironing clothes. But I hope you’re not being too particular, Daniel Graber. If she stomps home, back to her own life, you’ll be stuck with cooking scrambled eggs three times a day.”
Daniel fought back bitter tears from his selfishness. Abby was worried about him instead of herself. “If I chase her off with my peculiar demands, it’ll serve me right. When does your lawyer think you can come home?” His voice crackled with emotion.
“When you pay the court half a million dollars.” She lifted her chin. “Because I don’t pose a flight risk, the attorney requested another hearing to reduce my bail, but we can’t be certain it will be granted. Hopefully, I won’t draw sour-faced Judge O’Neil next time.”
Don’t pose a flight risk…draw a sour-faced judge? His sweet wife sounded like a city Englischer. Even her Deutsch accent had diminished. “Your daed and the ministerial brethren visited me the day before yesterday,” said Daniel. “They are undecided on the idea of using a bail bondman. They must hold a congregational meeting after the next preaching service. Your father fears the district will be divided on the matter. There’s never been anything like this before to set a precedent.”
Abby nodded, withdrawing her hands and folding them in front of her. “That is true, Daniel, but tell me about my father. How is he handling the shame of a daughter in jail? He’s not a young man anymore.” As visitors at the other tables stirred up a commotion, her words became barely audible.
Daniel considered how much to tell her. He couldn’t lie, but should she hear that her daed looked ten years older than the last time Daniel had seen him? “Don’t worry so much about others. Your father is a strong man whose faith will carry him through this ordeal. He is of the opinion that we should put the farm up as collateral. He’s even willing to offer his own home as collateral so that you could be free until the trial. It’s the ministers and the deacon who are undecided. And a bishop cannot behave in a certain fashion just because the member in question is his daughter.”
She sighed, her mouth turning down at the corners. “Jah, I suppose not, but I’m glad he hasn’t disowned me.”
“He loves you, Abby, but he must follow the Ordnung.” Daniel glanced up at the large clock hanging on the wall. He couldn’t remember how much time he would have with his wife. He sighed and inhaled deeply. “There is talk among the people. Word got around about the charges against you. No one understands how you could be charged with ‘practicing medicine without a license’ and ‘practicing midwifery without a license.’” He gazed at a multitattooed woman consoling an equally tattooed family member at the next table, wishing he didn’t have to broach this subject. When he turned back, Abby sat waiting, pale and deflated. “Is there more to what happened at the Fisher farm that night?”
She nodded with downcast eyes. “I knew if I couldn’t stop Mrs. Fisher’s hemorrhaging, she would die. So I gave her a shot to stop the bleeding. But the drug didn’t work, or it simply came too late. Ruth’s blood pressure fell so fast that her heart stopped.”
Daniel leaned across the table and gritted out his words between clenched teeth. “You have no idea that’s what happened. You couldn’t see inside that woman’s body.” He tried unsuccessfully to keep his voice down.
She shrugged. “That’s what the books say happens when a person bleeds to death, so I’m assuming that’s what took place with Mrs. Fisher. But it doesn’t matter now. She’s gone and nothing will bring her back.”
“It matters for you, Abigail, and for our family. I take it you weren’t supposed to have that drug in your possession,” he said. All this medical talk felt as alien to him as discussing the migratory patterns of wildlife on the African plains.
“No, but I told the paramedics. They had to know the dosage I gave so they could treat accordingly. I didn’t know what amount would be too much, or if the drug reacted badly with other medications.”
“Of course you wouldn’t know. You’re not a doctor.”
“I never said I was.” She jutted out her chin.
Her defensiveness began to irritate him. “Who else did you tell?”
“I told Dr. Weller when he called me the next day.” She began wringing her hands as though lathering them with soap.
“Didn’t you tell the sheriff when he arrived at the Fishers?”
“No, but not on purpose. Mr. Fisher was very upset—one minute sobbing incoherently and the next minute talking baby names as though nothing bad had happened. When the sheriff began writing up his report, I answered his questions but forgot to mention the shot of Pitocin.”
“Oh, Abigail, that’s what these charges are about. You had no business injecting a drug into a woman you didn’t even know and who wasn’t even a patient of Doc Weller. You shouldn’t have done that.” He felt foolish restating the obvious. “When did you tell the sheriff what you had done?”
“When he arrested me. You were standing right there.”
Daniel slapped a palm down on the table.
She glanced up with confusion. “I had to tell him what I’d done. I wasn’t about to lie. Is that what you would have me do—bear false witness?”
“No, of course not, but you shouldn’t have given that woman a shot in the first place. Administering medications to folks is business for English doctors, not Amish midwives. Your daed will not like hearing this.”
Her expression of confusion changed to alarm. “You plan to tell my father?”
“I don’t have a choice. He asked me to speak to you. How can he and the other brethren make a decision without knowing everything? Nobody understood why the charges against you were so serious.”
She sighed. “Tell whomever you wish.” She glanced around the room as though the discussion failed to hold her interest.
Daniel couldn’t fathom how a gentle soul, separated from her family, could remain so lackadaisical. “Abby, if you’re convicted of a felony, you could be sent to prison for many years. Do you fully understand the situation?”
“I think so. I might be convicted of dispensing medicine, of which I am guilty. But if I had to do it over, I don’t think I would have done anything differently.”
Daniel grabbed her hand. “You can’t be serious! If the judge hears you’re not sorry, that you don’t regret your lapse of judgment, he may…” Daniel tried to remember the English expression, “…throw the book at you.”
She stared at him blankly. “The apostle Paul wrote several books of the Bible while locked away in a Roman jail, including the book of Philippians. In that book he outlined the steps to obtain true joy in life.”
It was Daniel’s turn to stare. Has a week in jail been long enough to change Abigail into a stranger? “Do you fashion yourself to be an apostle? Do you see some connection between Paul’s persecution as a Christian and your present circumstances?”
Her pale complexion flushed to an unnaturally deep hue. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean it like that. I only meant that if God wants me locked up for attempting to save Ruth Fisher’s life, then I intend to use my time wisely. I’ve begun studying the Bible from the beginning. I wish to know more about the Hebrew prophets and the events before the Savior’s birth that determined His life on earth.”
Daniel noticed the other visitors hugging and rising to leave. He knew his time with his wife was almost over. “At least listen to your lawyer, Abby. I don’t want you to lie or withhold information, but please accept his counsel.” Daniel never thought he would be saying words like that. “If not for your sake, then for the sake of Laura and Jake.”
With the mention of her kinner, Abby’s face clouded with pain. “How are they? Do they miss me?”
“They are well, but of course they miss you. It takes great effort and many bedtime stories for Laura to fall asleep. Your schwester tries her best, but she is not you. Not with the children and certainly not in the kitchen.”
A ghost of a smile flitted across her face. “I hope God will forgive my vanity, but it does a wife’s heart good to hear she’s not easily replaced.”
“And I hope I’ll be forgiven for capturing my kinner’s image with a camera.” He drew out an old-fashioned Polaroid snapshot and passed it to her, blushing a bright hue. “I asked a tourist looking to buy eggs if she would take their picture and she did. I wanted you to have something to look at, to keep your spirits up while you’re in here.”
Abby looked shocked at first, but she smiled when she gazed on Laura and Jake playing on the swings. “Danki, but you shouldn’t have done this.” She tucked the photo into her pocket.
“It’s time. Let’s go, folks.” A harsh voice made the announcement over the loud speaker.
Daniel’s heart dropped into his stomach. There was so much he’d wanted to say, but he had used the time to prod, complain, and deliver advice. “We all miss you, fraa—me most of all, and not just your cooking. Please don’t be stubborn or willful. Come back to your family.”
“It’s not my choice that I remain here, Daniel. There is the small matter of half a million dollars.”
He struggled to his feet, while she rose with the smooth grace of a swan. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. “You have my word.”
“Tell Catherine I am in her debt. And be patient with her, ehemann. She has a gentle spirit and is easily hurt by strong words.” Abby offered a smile and walked toward the metal door across the room, calm and composed.
What goes on in this loathsome place that has so affected my wife?