When Gideon looked up, signaling the end of the prayer, Annabeth reached for the pancakes. Becca pushed the pitcher of syrup toward her, knowing her daughter’s sweet tooth. She covertly studied Gideon’s drawn features as they ate. He wasn’t getting better, and that worried her. A cold was one thing, but his cough had hung on much longer than it should. She waited until he finished eating. “Gideon, why don’t you drive Annabeth to school today? I’ll take care of the milk for a change.” She held her breath, waiting for his answer.
“You won’t try to lift those heavy milk cans by yourself?”
Because their Amish religion didn’t allow the use of electricity, their cows were milked by hand. The milk was strained and poured into ten-gallon stainless steel milk cans. The cans were taken by wagon every morning and every night to the refrigeration facility two miles away. Ten gallons of milk in a steel can weighed nearly a hundred pounds. She had filled five of them that morning. They were still sitting in the milking parlor.
She sought to ease Gideon’s mind and convince him to take the easier task of driving Annabeth to their Amish school in New Covenant. “I’ll wait on you and get started on my baking. If you don’t stop to gossip with the neighbors, we can get the milk to the collection point before the truck comes. If we miss it, nothing is lost. The milk won’t spoil in this weather. We’ll take a double load this evening.”
“Nee, you take the child. I will see to the milk as usual.”
“I want you to take me. Please, Daadi,” Annabeth said with her mouth still full of her last bite of sausage.
Becca didn’t scold her for her table manners. She hoped the child’s pleading would sway Gideon. It usually did. This morning was no exception. He smiled and nodded. “All right, I’ll take you. It will make a nice change for your mother.”
Becca’s tense shoulders relaxed. “Goot, now take the plates to the sink, Annabeth, and go wash your hands and face.”
“Daadi, will you tell me another story about the little boys with red hair that you used to know?” the child asked as she gathered the plates.
“If you do as your mother tells you,” he said softly.
“Okay.” She put the dishes in the sink and ran to wash up.
He looked at Becca. “Do you think she knows they are stories about her father and his brother?”
Becca’s heart contracted with pain. “Not yet, but one day she will realize the truth and thank you for it.”
Among the Amish it was proper to grieve for a lost loved one, as Becca still grieved for her husband, but it wasn’t considered proper to speak about them afterward. In doing so it might appear that a person was questioning God’s will in calling their loved one home. Annabeth had only the vaguest memories of her father. He died when she was barely four. Gideon’s stories of the little red-haired boys were his way of sharing his memories of his sons with her without naming them.
Annabeth came rushing back into the room, pulling on her coat. “I’m ready.”
Becca handed her a blue plastic lunch box and held open the door for the pair. The cold late-November air rushed in. Gideon took Annabeth’s hand and walked with her to the black buggy parked by the front gate. Cider, their buggy horse, stood waiting patiently, his warm breath rising in puffs of white mist from his nostrils.
Annabeth looked up at her grandfather. “Tell me the story about how the oldest red-haired boy saved his little brother in a runaway buggy.”
“You have heard it many times.”
“But it’s my favorite.”
Gideon coughed and pressed a hand to his chest for a moment before he lifted her into the buggy. “All right. I will tell it again.”
“And many more times, I pray,” Becca said softly. She watched them drive away and closed the door against the chill.
* * *
“I’m sorry to do this to you, Tully. I hope you know that.”
Tully Lange stared at the eviction notice he had just been handed by the kid who managed the apartment building. His rent was two weeks past due, but he had hoped to get a month’s extension. So much for hope.
Things weren’t going his way. He’d lost his job as a night watchman on Monday when the owner of the corner pawnshop where he worked died. Tully hadn’t found another job yet, but he was looking. The high point of his week had been a lukewarm Thanksgiving dinner at the local soup kitchen the day before yesterday. And now this. Happy holidays. It was enough to drive a sober man to drink.
He crumpled the paper in his hand. He wasn’t going to be that man ever again. “It’s okay, Reggie. I know you’re just doing your job.”
The skinny young man with spiked blond hair and thick glasses sagged with relief. “It’s nothing personal. You know that. The super won’t let me cut you any slack. I mean, I told him you just got out of rehab. I don’t think he has any idea how tough that is. Don’t let this bounce you off the wagon, Tully. I’ve seen how hard it is to quit drinking. My brother went through rehab. It was rough, but he stayed sober seven years.”
“Tell me he is still sober.” At the moment Tully needed to hear it could be done.
Reggie pressed his lips together and stared at his feet. “I wish I could. His wife left him. He couldn’t handle it. But hey, seven years, that’s a lot.”
Tully turned away before Reggie could see how crushed he was. For every story about people who stayed sober, there were dozens more about people who had failed. “Yeah, seven years is a lot. I hope he finds his way back to sobriety.”
“Thanks, man. I hope he does, too. What are you going
