Page 57 of The Hidden One

“Looks like you got those cabinets finished on time,” I say by way of greeting.

All eyes turn to me. Jonas pauses the cut, looks at me over his shoulder. I see the quick jump of pleasure in his eyes. “Katie.”

Junior’s face splits into a grin. “Mr. Gleason g-gave us a hundred-dollar b-bonus!”

“I’m not surprised,” I tell him. “Those were some nice-looking cabinets and you were one man short.”

Too shy to accept praise, the boy looks down at the length of wood in front of him and runs a chubby hand over the surface.

“They’re for a big house up in Harrisburg,” Reuben announces.

“A f-fancy mansion,” Junior puts in. “Mamm let us stay up late so we could finish and then Datt came home this morning and we worked all day.”

Jonas finishes the cut, then straightens and starts toward me. His eyes flit to the marks on my throat, but he doesn’t mention them.

“You made bail,” I say.

“All fifty thousand dollars of it.” He looks away, but not before I see the flash of shame in his eyes. “The Amish pulled together. Everyone put in what they could.”

“They’ll get it back,” I tell him.

“I know, but…” He lets the sentence trail as if not quite sure how to finish.

“Have you had supper, Katie?” asks Effie.

“As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”

“Mamm made chicken and noodles with mashed potatoes,” Junior proclaims. “It’s my favorite.”

“Everything’s your favorite.” Jonas brushes sawdust from his son’s shoulder.

The boy ducks his head.

“Will you eat with us?” Effie asks.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I tell her.

Jonas brings his hands together. “Kids, go wash your hands. Tell your mamm to set another plate.”

Supper at an Amish home is a utilitarian affair that’s looked forward to with a great anticipation, especially after a long day of physical labor. It’s the time for a hearty meal and a bit of conversation—usually regarding work that needs to be done and who will be doing it. Suppertime symbolizes the importance of family and everyone’s place in it. This afternoon, I’m part of the tradition, and despite my effort to maintain a prudent emotional distance, a sense of nostalgia moves me.

At the counter, Dorothy pulverizes boiled potatoes with a hand masher, putting enough muscle into it that her forehead is damp with sweat. Effie stirs noodles in a steaming Dutch oven on the stove. As a female guest, I’m relegated to setting out plates, flatware, along with glasses of tap water for the adults and milk for the kids. As we work, a breeze eases in through the window above the sink, cooling an otherwise hot kitchen. With the backdrop of clanging dishes, and Dorothy and Effie deliberating the prospect of a baby quilt for a neighbor, I’m swept back to a simpler time, and I find myself missing my own family.

“Katie?”

I glance over to see Effie pull out a chair. “You can sit here next to Mamm.”

I set the final glass of water on the table and take my seat. Jonas sits at the head of the table with Junior and Reuben to his left. Dorothy sets a steaming bowl of chicken and noodles on a hot pad in the center and slides into the chair to his right, next to me. Once everyone is seated, heads are bowed. As is the case with the majority of Amish families, the prayer before meal is silent and heartfelt.

Everyone serves themselves and plates are heaped with mashed potatoes, chicken and noodles, and green beans. There’s rustic-looking bread that’s a little too brown. Homemade butter in a bowl and apple butter on the side. For several minutes, the only sound comes from the scraping of forks and spoons against plates.

Throughout the meal Junior entertains us with stories from the woodshop. His first half-blind dovetail. The can of stain he spilled on a table they’d just finished, and the client who thought it was the prettiest piece of walnut he’d ever seen. He talks animatedly about the accident six months ago that severed the tip of Reuben’s pinky finger.

“Show her!” the boy exclaims.

I can tell by Reuben’s expression he’s no fan of being the center of attention, but the opportunity to show off a wounded-in-action scar is too good to pass up. Chewing, he holds out his hand. Sure enough, the tip of his left pinky finger and nail are missing.

“The bone was sticking out,” Junior says breathlessly. “The doctor in town told us to find the missing finger and put ice on it and bring it to the hospital.”