Sunday Evening in Shank's Knob
Dorcas wasn’t the only source of surprises in the days that followed. First, though, Sunday unfurled its distinctive delights, somehow more pleasing for their predictability. First, watching the sun rise over the mountains while savoring day’s first cup of tea by her upstairs home office window. Next, cycling across the cool hush of campus to the SSLC to help Dorcas, silent once more, with her hair. Then worshiping downtown alongside the Bible study women and their roommates and romantic prospects; a dozen or so seminary students—some single, others with spouses and what seemed liked scores of squirming toddlers; a few faculty members from both Schleitheim and Webb State University, the much-larger institution across town; and the people who lived mostly on the streets around the congregation’s rented storefront. Afterward, helping move folding chairs while students set up rows of tables and the parishioners who’d brought crockpots of curry and baskets of hummus wraps and bowls of cracked-grain salad arranged them on a long counter separating the meeting space from the kitchen. Then, getting to know a few folks better while savoring stew and stories of what God had done—or not yet done—in their lives the previous week. Even washing up felt a little like a celebration: the clink of cutlery, the sparkle and burst of soap bubbles, the accompanying rushes of steaming water and laughter.
As usual, Phoebe was the oldest person present (although Deborah Beachy wasn’t far behind). She was always ready for a Sunday nap after cycling home. She rested on the living room sofa, Eutychus at her feet, for an hour and then drove out to Silas and Mildred’s, taking two loaves of sunflower-seed bread as her contribution to supper. “Carrying coals to Newcastle,” she sometimes told herself, guiltily savoring the pleasure she found in Mildred’s exasperation.
“You know I always make rolls,” Mildred would chide as Phoebe held out the bakery bag, and Phoebe would urge, “Just put them in the freezer. Maybe you’ll enjoy them later in the week.” Both of Mildred’s freezers were probably full of sunflower-seed bread, Phoebe suddenly realized. There would be no room for the garden’s final yield. The state-approved days for youth deer-hunting usually fell at the end of September, too, and then bow- and regular hunting seasons opened. Hog-killing followed. Repenting, if only a little, Phoebe resolved to bring Miriam’s cinnamon buns next time. Nobody who smelled them would be able to resist them long enough to get them into a freezer.
But when Phoebe entered her brother and sister-in-law’s farmhouse on this occasion, Mildred just nodded from across the sitting room, where she was inspecting her newest grandbaby. After hugging nieces and nephews all the way to the kitchen, Phoebe set the bread on the counter beside the toaster. She praised the fragrance of the apple pies Damaris was pulling from one of the ovens before joining Mildred and Silas and most of the other adults back in the sitting room. She admired the baby, congratulated the beaming parents, and then accepted the chair that Ben, Damaris’s son-in-law, stood to offer.
“How’s Joanna?” Phoebe asked once he’d slid a footstool over and perched beside her.
“Tired but unwilling to admit it,” he replied. “I exercised my headship and directed her to stay home and nap.” He winked at Phoebe, his eyes almost as blue as his shirt. The dark hair at his temples was just starting to silver.
“Well done,” Phoebe approved. If someone had pressed her to name a favorite in-law, Ben would have surely made the short list. His mother, Betty, had been her closest girlhood friend, but Ben had become Phoebe’s friend in his own right. She suspected that his intellectual curiosity surpassed her own. Although he hadn’t pursued formal education beyond the Shank’s Knob school, he had been taking radio program Bible correspondence courses for years and subscribed to a remarkable range of scientific and agricultural magazines. In the early years of his marriage to Joanna, he had been among the first in the community to adopt new poultry-raising techniques, and he had surprised everyone three years ago by branching out.
“How’s the mushroom business?” Phoebe asked.
Ben’s eyes lit up. “Great,” he told her. “We can’t keep up with the demand.”
“I know Miriam Fast is one of your customers,” she told him. “I bought some of her bisque at the farmer’s market a couple of weeks ago. It was delicious.”
“She deserves a lot of credit for my taking on mushrooms. She insisted there was a demand, and she was right. Now we’re selling to chefs in Charlottesville and northern Virginia.”
Phoebe clapped her hands in delight. “I am so glad to hear it!” she said. “Do you plan to diversify further?”
He nodded and lowered his voice. “I’m hoping that we can give up raising chickens entirely in a year or two. Some folks’ll think I’m crazy, but Joanna is supportive. We can convert the rest of the chicken houses and maybe add some hoop-houses. I’m not sure we should go entirely organic, but I’d like to move in that direction.” Phoebe saw him grin as he glanced out the window behind her, so she turned to follow his gaze. Jerome was bouncing furiously on a trampoline, along with two of Silas and Mildred’s grandchildren. They lived next door, and the trampoline was theirs. An older brother and sister stood by as spotters.
“Would you look at that kid?” Ben said. “Sometimes I think he never even stops to take a breath.” He chuckled. “But then bedtime comes, and he’s asleep before we’ve buttoned his pajamas.”
“How much longer do you think he’ll stay?” she asked.
Ben shrugged, his smile fading. “I don’t know, Phoebe. The judge keeps sending him back and forth between us and his birth mom. Joanna gets upset every time. I try to tell her that he’ll be safe with his grandmother living there, too, but we don’t have a lot of hope that his mom will ever be able to raise him. Would you believe she used disinfectant wipes instead of diaper wipes on his bottom on his last visit? We can’t figure out whether she’s cruel or just simple-minded.”
Phoebe winced. Then they both looked up as Mildred spoke from the doorway to the kitchen. “Let’s get supper on,” she said. Most of the other women followed her, but Phoebe lingered.
“I’m glad Jerome’s with you now,” she told Ben. “He’s laying down good memories, whatever may happen.”
“Well, if we can just get him toilet-trained before he goes back, we’ll have served him well,” he said grimly.
Phoebe entered the kitchen to find the vast maple table at the room’s center nearly covered with platters and bowls. Salt-cured country ham was the meal’s star, with green beans cooked with potatoes, creamed corn, pickled beets and eggs, steamed cabbage, stewed apples, cottage cheese, strawberry jam, and peach preserves playing supporting roles. She took a full water pitcher from a niece standing at the sink and started filling glasses as the men entered. She heard the front screen door flap closed countless times and the sounds of giggles and running water as the children washed up the hall bathroom. Finally, everyone had joined the kitchen circle, double-layered at several points, ringing the room. As the chatter subsided, Silas directed, “Let’s return thanks.” Silence fell over the group until he announced, “Amen!” Immediately, the hubbub resumed, louder than before.
“You kids come pick up your rolls at the stove,” Mildred called, sliding a pan from one of her two ovens. “But be careful—they’re hot!” Supervised by their parents, the children filled their plates and claimed their rolls, grabbing cutlery before heading out to picnic tables behind the house. The teenagers, one carrying a water pitcher and another a stack of plastic cups, followed, but the adults took seats inside. Phoebe filled two napkin-lined baskets with the golden rolls and set one at each end of the table before choosing a chair beside Philemon, her youngest brother. He was deep in conversation with Barnabas on his other side but gently squeezed Phoebe’s hand in greeting. Mildred approached with an enormous platter, having refilled it with steaming wedges of ham, and set it at the center before claiming the spot on Phoebe’s other side.
Once seated, she paused to wipe her brow with a paper napkin.
“Are you okay, Mildred?” Phoebe asked.
“I’m fine,” Mildred assured her. “It was just hot over that stove—and I only did the rolls! Mary fried the ham, and Martha cut off and cooked all the corn.” She looked proudly down the table at twin granddaughters, wearing matching violet-print dresses. “Make sure you get a hot piece of ham,” Mildred ordered, “and put it in one of my rolls before the men get them all.” She gestured impatiently toward the nephew holding the closest basket, who obediently slid it across the table to her.
“Thank you,” Phoebe said, reaching into the basket after Mildred. She didn’t bother to tell her sister-in-law that she preferred corn or cooked apples to ham on rolls. “Where did you get fresh corn this late in the year?” she marveled.
“Weavers’ Market got a truckload from Michigan yesterday,” Dorcas replied, handing her the ham platter. Continuing to talk, she paid no notice as Phoebe passed it on to Philemon without taking any. “This has been quite a week,” she declared, recounting the tasks she and her “girls” had undertaken. “And then we made four spaghetti casseroles for the young people’s fellowship last night,” she concluded. “They’re planning another trip up to northern New York to help build that new school.” She lowered her voice. “Had you heard that Rhoda Brenneman’s been corresponding with that boy she met up there? Jacob and Elizabeth are so relieved. Elizabeth has been fretting that Rhoda’d never find a husband after she and Samuel Hess broke things off.” Phoebe just nodded, declining to comment.
After pausing briefly to chew her ham, Mildred spoke again, this time at her usual volume. “So when are you going to bring Dorcas back?”
Phoebe tried to resist defensiveness. “I don’t know, Mildred. She’s still having speech and physical therapy several times a week, and I think she sees the occupational therapist at least that often. Hiring a van to take her back into town for all of those appointments wouldn’t be very practical.”
“Well, I don’t think spending all that money to keep her in an institution is very practical, either,” Mildred retorted. “Surely, paying a driver to take her for therapy a few times a week would be less expensive than paying for that place.”
Suddenly, Phoebe felt weary. “You’re probably right,” she said. “It would cost less.”
She hadn’t realized that Philemon had been listening until he turned to comment. “Here’s something we should probably consider,” he said. “All that riding back and forth might be hard on Dorcas. I think Phoebe’s been real nice to take the lead on this, and she sees Dorcas about every day. I think we can trust her to let us know when the time is right.”
Phoebe smiled at him, then said, “She’s talking again, as of last night.” Mildred’s eyebrows rose in incredulity. “I’ll ask her how she feels about a move.”
“Is her judgment sound enough for decision-making?” Mildred pressed.
Phoebe shrugged. “I really don’t know, Mildred. You can come talk to her if you want to assess her cognitive recovery.”
Mildred glared at her, registering the rebuke. “Well!” she said, rising abruptly. She stalked to the ovens, where she busied herself with removing two more pans of rolls.
Philemon squeezed Phoebe’s hand again. “Never mind her,” he whispered. “You’re doing good, Sis.”