The Mercy (25 page)

“Well, it’s like anything. You just have to wait an’ see if a person’s bent on doing what he says.”

“Doesn’t Simon believe Nick will follow through?”

Dat shook his head. “For some reason, he seems not to.”

“What ’bout Nick’s confession? Does that have anything to do with it? I heard Bishop Simon’s not convinced by Nick’s account of things.”

“Well, a young man is dead . . . and Nick saw him last, was right there with him.”

Rose knew it looked awful suspicious. “Just boils down to a lack of witnesses.”

“That’s exactly it.”

To get their minds on something else, she pointed out the old wheelbarrow. “Did ya see what I did?”

“Figured someone hauled Deacon Samuel’s cast-off up here, but didn’t know just why.”

She shared the conversation she’d had with Dawdi in the barn before he died. Her father took it all in . . . listening and rocking in the chair.

After a time, the moon appeared to the right of the barn, a waxing crescent. Was Isaac sitting out somewhere staring up at it, too? The thought brought Rose momentary joy in the midst of the sad and solemn day. She was tempted to put Dat’s mind at ease about Nick, tell him not to fret—that Nick Franco certainly wasn’t a worry for him any longer when Isaac Ebersol was the one who loved her most.
A right fine son-in-law to be.

T
he day of the funeral was unbearably hot. Numerous handkerchiefs and paper fans, including Rose’s own, were already in use that Friday as the clocks in the house struck nine and the first preacher removed his hat. As if on cue, all the men present removed their own hats before the first sermon, which, aside from some respectful but brief remarks about Dawdi Jeremiah’s life and character, was nearly identical in content to the introductory one given at a Sunday Preaching service, though shorter. “His strong faith and his conduct point to the kind of man our brother Jeremiah was,” the minister said earnestly. “His was a life that pleased the Lord.”

Rose felt honored to be seated between Mammi Sylvia and Mamm, who sat in her wheelchair at the end of the row. She hoped her presence would somehow provide a comfort during the hour and a half service.

After the second sermon and the reading of the obituary, the large front room was vacated and reorganized, and the coffin moved to a location more conducive to the line of mourners filing past.

Rose had been to a few funerals for young people, including Christian Petersheim’s. At such gatherings, there was sometimes soft weeping, but considering her grandfather’s long and fruitful life, the grieving today was largely evident in the somber expressions.

While the nearly three hundred mourners waited outdoors under the tall shade trees, the horses were gathered around a large wagon filled with hay. Buggies neatly lined up in a double row off to the side.

Rose noticed Nick standing with Aaron and his sons-in-law. Earlier, he’d given her a sympathetic look but kept his distance, which she appreciated, and he appeared to be doing the same now.

Rose spotted her first cousin Sarah demurely eyeing Nick as she stood next to her mother. The two of them were here to help with food and table setting later.

Offering a slight smile to both of them, Rose remained with her sisters-in-law and dear Hen. Her sister had sat in the back of the funeral service with other English neighbors and friends.

“I’ll miss Dawdi,” Hen whispered to Rose.

“We all will.” Rose reached for her hand.

Solomon had not expected so many neighboring farmers to arrive for the funeral, especially not those who lived miles away. Still, they’d come, Amish and Englischers alike. Among them was Jeb Ulrich, the hermitlike man who lived in the shanty near Bridle Path Lane. The man was dressed in black and, though clean-shaven, fit in quite well with their drab Amish attire. Presently, Jeb was working his way through the crowd to where Sol stood near Aaron, Nick, and Bishop Simon.

Jeb immediately zeroed in on Nick. “Say, aren’t you the young man I saw in the ravine last fall?” The old man’s voice was loud enough that Sol cringed.

Nick looked momentarily confused as he realized Jeb was talking to him; then his expression grew cautious.

“I’m glad to see you recovered from your accident,” Jeb went on, seemingly unaware of the attention he was attracting. “How’s the other young man you were with? He looked to be in pretty rough shape after he bloodied his head.”

Sol startled at this and glanced quickly at Aaron, and the two of them, as well as Bishop Simon, inched closer to Jeb.

“Who do you mean?” Sol asked, sure Jeb meant Christian. Yet what a thing to bring up on a day like this!

“Always wondered how that all turned out,” Jeb said simply.

Sol was embarrassed at Jeb’s impropriety. He touched the man’s shoulder to lead him away from the crowd. “If you’re referring to Christian Petersheim, I’m afraid he succumbed to his injuries,” Sol said.

Jeb stepped back, his face drained of color. “He
died
?”

Sol patted Jeb’s shoulder again, hoping he’d find another topic of conversation and spare Aaron any further reminder of his terrible loss.

Jeb turned back to Nick and frowned. “Well, then, I bet you’re just sick about what happened.”

Nick nodded sadly. “I am.”

“It just didn’t look that bad, you know? I mean, not from where I was standing. I was sure the other fellow—Christian, you say—would be just fine.”

Aaron gasped. Sol was taken aback: It sounded as if Jeb was claiming to have
witnessed
the scene. After all, the man did live on the side of the ravine. Sol ventured ahead. “Jeb . . . were you actually
there
when it happened?”

Jeb cleared his throat and stood straighter, as if to add dignity to his response. “Well, yes . . . I was.”

“What exactly did you see?” Bishop Simon put in, his eyes intent on the elderly Englischer before him.

“I was outside in my yard when I saw that young man right there. ’Course he had a ponytail then. It was the strangest thing, seeing an Amish fellow looking like that.” Jeb gestured toward Nick. “You look clean-cut now, without all the long hair.”

Nick stood unmoving, as though shocked by Jeb’s admission that he’d seen him with Christian. Or, Sol wondered, was there more to his discomfort?

“You’re referring to Nick Franco, the bishop’s foster son,” Bishop Simon noted.

“Yes, well, this Nick and Christian came riding real fast along the road into the ravine on their horses. Nick started to get off his horse right there on the boulders, which seemed downright foolish—it’s so terribly steep there. But Christian reached over and grabbed hold of Nick’s ponytail. He started hacking away at it with a knife, of all things!”

Aaron grimaced, and Sol felt his heart pause in its beating. To think Christian had taken such a dreadful risk!

“Well, Nick was barely able to stay on his horse at that point. He jerked back and shoved Christian’s knife away, but Christian lost his balance and fell headfirst into the rocks . . . taking Nick with him—right down on top of him. It looked to me like both of them were out cold, so I started running toward them, but the underbrush caught me good and I slipped and fell, too. And by the time I got myself up and brushed off, Nick had come to and lifted the other guy up, heaving him across his own horse to get him up to the road. Never saw anything like it . . . not between Amish, you know?”

Sol shook his head, aware how pale the others looked even in this heat.

“I had no idea Christian died. That’s horrible . . . and here I’ve been wondering all this time. Guess I should’ve asked Jeremiah about him.” Jeb was quiet for a moment while they all digested the information he’d just spewed.

Jeb turned back to Nick. “I’m real sorry about what happened. I wish I could have been some help.”

Nick gave a brief nod of acknowledgment, obviously still too stunned to speak.

Jeb looked again at Sol. “You
do
know it was this here Nick who showed up at my door—just a boy—the day your wife’s buggy flipped over.”

Sol shook his head. “It couldn’t have been him.”

“Nick was just a lad . . . ten years old,” Aaron added.

Jeb nodded. “Well, that’s right, yes—he was about that age, as I recall.”

Sol and Aaron exchanged glances again.

“Well, he came wearing English britches and a T-shirt with some kind of logo on it. Maybe you didn’t know he went around with his Amish clothes tucked under modern ones—trying to hide them, I guess. He was a curious one, that youngster. I always felt a bit sorry for him. I warned him once he’d get a tongue-lashing from his father if he got caught doing that.”

Aaron cleared his throat.

“No, even though I didn’t know his name, I’m sure this here Nick was the one who told me about the upturned buggy that day . . . and your wife lying there, needing medical help.”

A tremor ran through Sol. “
Nick
found . . . my wife?” He could hardly get the words out.

“That’s right. And I called the ambulance.” Jeb’s eyes glistened. “I suppose you could even say he saved her life. Might’ve been hours before someone else wandered along and found her.”

This news so soon after the other left Sol reeling. Aaron and the bishop seemed to be having equal difficulty comprehending. Yet no one’s astonishment could compare to Nick’s. The young man’s dark eyes were wide, and his mouth gaped.

Bishop Simon motioned for them to move over near the horses and the hay wagon, where he quizzed Jeb about the day of Christian’s accident. Jeb answered each question without faltering, recounting everything he’d just said without shifting a single detail.

At last, Simon acknowledged that Jeb’s account matched Nick’s own, which amazed Sol, who’d never believed Jeb a reliable eyewitness.
All these years I disbelieved him about the English boy.
But now he felt sure Jeb knew what he was talking about. Perhaps Jeb had not been able to articulate things as well at the time of Emma’s accident . . . or Sol hadn’t been in a state to believe him. Sol just didn’t know.

Sol reached to shake Jeb’s hand. “Thanks again for getting help for Emma that day. I’m mighty grateful.”
Lord God have mercy on me for doubting this poor man!

Jeb nodded and wiped his brow.

Sol couldn’t resist another glance at Bishop Simon, who looked lost in thought, undoubtedly absorbing all he’d heard.

Without another word, Sol stepped inside with the other mourners.

Rose walked to the well-kept Amish cemetery with Hen and Mammi Sylvia while two men carried Mamm to the burial site in her wheelchair.

The grave had been already filled halfway, and Rose and Hen held hands as the People gathered in clusters of families, ready for the final words.

She saw Bishop Simon unexpectedly hand the
Ausbund
hymnal to Aaron Petersheim, and Aaron nodded in agreement to something privately spoken between the two men. Rose didn’t understand just what had occurred, but she was delighted to see Aaron Petersheim apparently being given a small part in the burial service.

Aaron went to stand near the hand-dug grave and read a hymn. The grave was then filled all the way and mounded before the immediate family turned to head back to the house for a meal with close family and friends. Brandon would bring Mattie Sue and join them by the time the rest of them arrived there.

Heading home, Rose did not know what to make of Aaron’s reading at the grave site. Had Bishop Simon changed his mind? If so, why now? She looked behind her and saw Bishop Simon walking along the road with Nick—most unusual. “What on earth?” Rose said to Hen.

Hen whispered back that Dat, Aaron, and the Bart bishop had been talking during their walk to the cemetery. “Something’s up.”

“But . . . at Dawdi’s burial?”

“Whatever’s been discussed, it looks like Aaron might keep his title as bishop.”

“Ach, do you really think so?” Hope shivered through Rose—so many varying emotions in one day. Tomorrow presented even more promise with Isaac’s and her reunion at twilight. The pleasant thought gave her courage during the big family dinner—and later, when she and her parents were the only ones left at home with Mammi Sylvia.