Little Amish Matchmaker Read online

  Sim dug in his pocket for his Barlow knife. He found it and flicked it open before bending to cut the baling twine around a bale of hay. “It’s not right to ask God for a million dollars or a mansion or something to make you happy.”

  “Who said?”

  Isaac leaned against the hand-hewn post, tipped back his straw hat, stuck a long piece of hay in his mouth and chewed solemnly.

  “But the thing is, you don’t know. If it’s God’s will for your life, he might consider it.”

  Sim shook his head, mumbled something.

  “What did you say?”

  “Nothing you’d understand.”

  “Are you coming to the Christmas program?” Isaac asked.

  “When is it?”

  Isaac shrugged. “You could offer to fix the front door before then.”

  “Look, Ikey, give it up. She’d—”

  “Stop calling me Ikey!”

  “She’d never consider me. She’s … just too … pretty and classy and awesome. Besides, she was dating Rube King.”

  Isaac lifted a finger, held it aloft. “Was! There’s the word. Was!”

  “Well, if she’d say yes, it would soon be a ‘was!’”

  Isaac knew defeat when he saw it, so he went to help Mam with the milking. He was cold and sleepy. He wished chores were finished so he could go indoors and curl up on the couch with his Christmas play.

  The cow stable was pungent, steamy and filled with the steady “chucka-chucka” sound of four, large, stainless-steel milkers extracting the milk from the sturdy, black and white Holsteins. His mother was bent beside a cow, wiping the udder with a purple cloth dipped in a disinfecting solution. She straightened with a grunt, smiled at him and asked if his chores were finished.

  “The chickens yet.”

  “You might need a snow shovel. It was drifting around the door this afternoon already.”

  Isaac nodded and then bent his head, prepared to meet the onslaught awaiting him the minute he opened the cow-stable door. It did no good. A gigantic puff of wind clutched his hat and sent it spinning off into the icy, whirling darkness. He felt his hair stand straight up, then whip to the left, twisting to the right. No use looking for his hat now. He had better take care of the chickens.

  Isaac’s heart sank when he saw the snowdrift. No way could he get into that chicken house without shoveling. He retraced his steps, found the shovel and met the cold head-on once more. His ears stung painfully as his hair tossed about wildly. This was no ordinary snowstorm; it was more like a blizzard. Likely there would be no school tomorrow.

  He was able to wedge his way into the chicken house through the small opening, quickly opening the water hydrant and scattering laying mash into the long, tin trough. He fluffed up the dry shavings the hens had thrown in the corner. Then Isaac made a headlong dive out of the warmth of the henhouse, wading through knee-high snow to the house.

  He was surprised to see Dat on the front porch, kicking snow off his chore boots.

  “You done already?” he asked his father.

  “No, Sim’s finishing. Levi Beiler came over, riding his horse. They need help at the Speicher home.”

  “Speicher? Teacher Catherine?”

  Dat nodded soberly.

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  That sort of answer was no answer at all, but Isaac knew it meant he did not need to know, that he should go into the house and ask no questions. When Dat laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder and Isaac looked up, Dat’s eyes were warm in the light from the kitchen.

  “You think you’ll ever find your hat?”

  Dat’s hand spread a whole new warmth through him, a comfort, an understanding.

  “I have another one. My school hat.” He fixed himself a large saucepan of Mam’s homemade hot cocoa mix and milk. The whole saucepanful ran over, hissing and bubbling into the burner, turning the blue gas flame orange. Isaac jumped up and flipped the burner off, salvaging his warm drink. He dumped the hot cocoa into a mug that said Snoopy on it. Mam loved yard sales. She had a whole collection of funny mugs which made Dat smile.

  Mam came in, went to the wash house and kicked around to get her boots off, all to the tune of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

  He was proud of Mam. She was one smart lady. Not very many Amish people knew that song, but she did. She knew lots of things. She knew what Orthodox Jews were, and synagogues, and she knew who the leader of Cuba was. She explained dictatorship to Isaac, and Dat hid his head behind the Botschaft for a long time when Isaac said his teacher was a dictator. That, of course, was before Catherine Speicher.

  He wrapped both hands around the Snoopy mug of hot cocoa, took a sip and burned his tongue.

  Mam came through the door, taking off her apron, sniffing and asking what was burning.

  “The cocoa ran over.”

  Mam frowned. She hurried to the stove, peered at the blackened burner, and then bent for her tall green container of Comet. “Tsk, tsk. Should have wiped it off, Ikey. This is quite a blizzard. There are no cars moving at all. The snowplow is going, though, so I’m sure they’ll keep some of the roads open.”

  Mam was basically doing what she did best, talking. No matter if Isaac didn’t reply, she rattled on anyway. “Sim went with Dat. They’re having trouble with their water pump. At least that’s what I thought he said. Don’t know why Sim had to go. You’d think Dat and Abner could handle it. Well, see, they can’t run out of water. Those calves and heifers they raise need water. Isaac, what are you reading? School stuff? Christmas plays, I bet. You know I’m not allowed to see it. Just tell me the title. Is it a play? Are you hungry? I’m going to eat a chocolate whoopie pie. I made them this afternoon. You want one to dip in your cocoa? Better not dip it. Whoopie pies fall apart, they’re so soft.”

  By the time she reached the pantry, she was singing again, partly under her breath, a sort of humming with words. She was carrying a large rectangular Tupperware container with a gold-colored lid, one Isaac knew contained either whoopie pies or chocolate chip cookies. Sometimes she made pumpkin or oatmeal whoopie pies, but she always had to put some of them in the freezer for sister’s day. Her boys just weren’t so schlim (fond of) pumpkin or oatmeal.

  “Guess none of these will last for sister’s day, huh?” Mam said, as she kept talking while pouring herself a glass of creamy milk. Isaac raised his eyebrows, knowing Mam wouldn’t expect an answer.

  Sister’s day was a regularly occurring hazard, in his opinion. First of all were those 18 nieces and nephews to contend with. All his Legos, model ships, harmonicas and BB guns had to be stowed into hiding. His sisters sat around the table and ate, drank endless quantities of coffee, discussed either people or food and didn’t watch their offspring one bit.

  Especially Bennie. That little guy could do with a good paddling from his dat, not his mam. Isaac told him a dozen times to leave that wooden duck decoy alone, the one that sat on his chest of drawers, but inevitably Bennie would climb up on his bed, then his clothes hamper, and get that decoy down. Every time. Isaac told Mam, which did absolutely no good. Mam’s head was stuffed full of babies and recipes and songs and time on the clock and all kinds of troubles. Some things in life you were better off shutting your mouth about and not caring so much. It was only a wooden duck.

  But if Bennie ran with the wild crowd in his rumspringa years, they couldn’t say they hadn’t been warned. He’d done his best.

  He yawned, rubbed his eyes, then reached for a whoopie pie. Slowly, he dug at the Saran Wrap, uncovering half of it, then sank his teeth into the chocolatey goodness.

  “Better get in the shower. Be sure and brush your teeth. Don’t forget to brush for a whole minute,” Mam called.

  That, too, was a ridiculous thing. If you brushed your teeth for 60 seconds, you ended up swallowing all the toothpaste, which could not be good for your digestive system. So he never timed himself, just brushed awhile.

  Isaac’s last thought was won
dering what was going on at the Speichers before he fell asleep.

  Chapter Three

  IT WAS UNBELIEVABLE, BUT in the morning, the light was still gray, the air stinging with brutish, icy snow. They did the chores swiftly, shoveling drifts from doorways, opening frozen water pipes with propane torches.

  No school, of course, although Isaac knew they could have, so it would be a sort of holiday. Horses pulling a carriage or sleigh could get through deep snow, but most horses were terrified of snowplows. With this amount still coming down, those clattering monsters with yellow blinking lights and chains rattling would be plowing the drifting snow back into place. It was better to take the day off.

  Isaac never found out when Sim came home, and he didn’t bother asking about the trouble at the Speichers. Sim was a puzzle. His eyes were way too bright, almost feverish, and yet he looked completely miserable. Isaac figured he’d have all day to corner Sim, which he fully intended to do.

  Mam made fried cornmeal mush, stewed crackers, puddin’s and fried eggs for breakfast.

  “Mush und levva vosht. (Mush and puddin’s) Nothing better on a cold winter day,” Dat said, gazing warmly at Mam. Her cheeks flushed like red apples as she basked in his praise.

  Isaac squirted homemade ketchup all over his stewed crackers, then cut a bit of fried egg and laid it on top. Shoveling it onto his fork, he wedged it into his mouth, then bit off a corner of his toast spread with homemade raspberry jelly and watched Sim’s face.

  Seriously, that poor guy was in a bad way. He didn’t even talk.

  Dat opened the subject, saying Abner Speicher was taken to the hospital, with a bad case of pneumonia, only worse. He wasn’t sure what it was; viral something. A few hours later their water pump gave out, leaving the calves in the veal barn without water.

  Dat hated gossip. He never belittled anyone, but Isaac could see he was choosing his words carefully, trying hard not to disparage his neighbor. Not everyone had the same work ethic as Dat, nor owned three farms. Dat was very humble in that respect, teaching his sons to never speak of the farms he possessed.

  He asked Sim if they wanted to have a working day at the Speichers, sort of a frolic.

  When Sim choked on his mush and had to swallow some juice, then choked on the acidic drink, Isaac burst out laughing uproariously. Sim smacked his arm, but Isaac kept on laughing.

  Dat and Mam were clueless, the expressions on their faces much the same as the duck decoy on his chest of drawers.

  While their parents drank their coffee, Isaac and Sim went to the basement for some cider. As soon as they were out of earshot, Isaac crowed triumphantly. “Do you think you should have a frolic at the Speichers?” then scampered behind the Ping-Pong table before Sim could catch him.

  Sim shook his head, telling him he was too big for his britches.

  “Did she help you fix the water pump?”

  “No.”

  “Did you go into the house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Of course not. Her mother made coffee and set out some kind of cupcakes.”

  “Did you eat one?”

  Without answering, Sim asked, “Is Catherine shy?”

  “No. Not one bit. She’s just right.”

  That was the end of the conversation. Sim would not say one more word, taking the jar of home-canned cider upstairs and heating it, his thoughts clearly a million miles away.

  They hitched Pet and Dan to the bobsled, that ancient, hazardous rattletrap half hidden in the haymow with loose hay and cobwebs. They swept the bobsled clean, rubbed it with moist old cloths, spread clean straw on the bed, oiled the runners and springs, fixed the seat with two extra screws, then settled bales of hay covered with buggy blankets behind the front seat.

  Isaac was allowed to wear one of Sim’s ­beanies, Dat saying a storm like this was a rare and wonderful thing, but not to expect to wear one always. They were worldly, in his opinion, but you needed to exercise common sense on a day like this.

  Isaac couldn’t express his feeling of absolute happiness, sitting up there beside Sim, wearing the beanie he wore to play hockey. He felt like a true king reigning over his subjects. Not one thing could go wrong.

  Pet and Dan were both the same color, a light caramel with lighter manes and tails. They were brushed to sleek perfection, the black well-oiled harness slapping against their rounded haunches as they broke into a heavy, clumsy trot, their hooves making a dull “thok-thoking” sound against the snow. Their manes were so heavy they broke apart on top of their massive necks, then jiggled back and forth with each step.

  It was snowing still. Isaac bent his head to avoid the stinging flakes, but after a few miles he became used to it. They picked up Calvin and his sister Martha and gave them a ride, making a wide circle before depositing them on their driveway again. They picked up some chicken feed at the hardware store in Bird-In-Hand, then turned to go back home.

  Isaac was checking out the new sign in front of the bakery when he heard Sim yell, “Whoa!”

  He turned to look down into the astonished eyes of his teacher.

  “Do you need a ride?”

  In disbelief, Isaac watched as his beloved teacher’s eyes filled with quick tears.

  “Oh, I do. I’m so glad to see someone. Anyone! Our water isn’t coming again. The calves are bawling, and I was going to walk to the firehouse for help.”

  Quickly, Isaac scrambled to the back and sat primly on a hay bale with his hands clasped jubilantly on his knees. Now she would have to sit beside Sim.

  She took Sim’s proffered hand, sat down gingerly, and turned to look at him, saying, “You have no idea how glad I am to see you. I’m just desperate. My mam can’t go out in this, and I can see the roads are all but impassable.”

  Sim only nodded, and Isaac thought, Oh, come on now, say something.

  “I hope we don’t meet a snowplow,” Catherine said.

  “These horses should be okay. They’re used to just about anything.”

  Isaac pumped the air with his fist, quickly folding it into his other hand when Catherine turned, saying, “Hey, Isaac! I took your seat.”

  In the distance, they heard the ominous rattling of chains, the dragon let out of his lair, that abominable snowplow. Sim tightened his grip on the reins; Isaac could tell by the squaring of his shoulders. The humongous yellow vehicle rolled into view, spraying a mountain of white snow to the side, chains squeaking and rattling. Pet and Dan lifted their heads, pricked their ears forward, while Catherine grabbed Sim’s arm with one hand, stifling a scream with the other.

  Perfect! Just perfect!

  Isaac knew these Belgians wouldn’t do much, if anything, and sure enough, they plodded on as the monstrous truck rattled by.

  “Sorry! I’m so sorry,” Catherine said.

  Sim grinned down at her, saying, “That’s all right, Catherine. I wouldn’t mind meeting another one.”

  Yes!

  Up went Isaac’s fist, then he brought it down and banged it against his knee, squeezing his eyes shut as he dipped his head.

  And they still had to fix the water pump.

  Isaac had to walk to school the following morning. The sun was dazzling, the whole world covered in a cold, white blanket of snow. The wind moaned about the house, sending gigantic clouds of whirling snow off rooftops and trees, across hills and onto the roads, especially where there was an embankment to the west.

  Scootering was out of the question, that was sure. He tied his lunch box to the old wooden sled. He had greased the runners with the rectangular block of paraffin that Mam used to stiffen her white coverings when she washed and ironed them. This sled used to be Dat’s, and it was the undisputed leader of all the sleds at Hickory Grove School.

  Teacher Catherine greeted him from her desk with the usual “Good morning, Isaac.” He was a bit disappointed, the way she said it sort of quieter than usual, then dr
opped her head and immediately became quite busy.

  Had she seen all that fist-pumping? He certainly hoped not.

  Hannah Fisher had only one problem wrong in arithmetic class, and he had 100%, which sent Dora Esh into a spasm of sniffing and carrying on. She even raised her hand and asked if it was wrong if Isaac had boxes instead of cartons for a story problem, trying to make him lose his 100%. Then when Teacher Catherine said it was all right, that the problem had both boxes and cartons in it, she looked as if she was going to start bawling, blinking her eyes like that and getting all red in the face.

  Someone should straighten these girls out.

  All day, Teacher Catherine acted strangely. Even at recess while sledding, she seemed a bit stiff, her movements calculated, almost self-conscious. He caught her watching him do his English, and when he looked up, she quickly looked away.

  That was odd.

  But, he supposed, you couldn’t get away from the fact that no matter how much he admired his teacher, she was a girl, and they all had a tendency to be strange at times.

  You just couldn’t figure them out.

  Take last evening while they were fixing the pump at Speichers. Sim had soon become aware of the problem, but they had to pull the water pump. Catherine had helped gamely. She watched as Sim tightened something, primed it, stopped and started it, then lowered it and told them to open a spigot somewhere and let it run for awhile until the water ran clear.

  She hadn’t invited them in.

  Just stood out there by the old windmill and talked to Sim. Isaac was freezing. He was hungry. Why couldn’t they go inside and have a cupcake? They weren’t laughing or having fun at all. They just talked boring stuff about hospitals and her dat and all mosa. (alms) He thought Catherine was sort of crying at one point, but he got cold and climbed on the bobsled and covered himself up real good with the buggy blanket.

  Once, he peeped out over, and they were still standing there, only closer yet, and Sim’s head was going to fall off his shoulders if he leaned forward any more than that.

  You couldn’t date a girl without laughing, ever. Isaac’s toes were so cold he stuck them under the hay bale and got steadily angrier. Just when he thought he was going to die of cold and starvation, alone on that bobsled, he heard footsteps, a “Good-night!” and they were off.