All in good time, p.1
All in Good Time, page 1
The characters and events in this book are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.
ALL IN GOOD TIME
Copyright © 2022 by Linda Byler
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Good Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.
Good Books books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Good Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.
Good Books is an imprint of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.
Visit our website at www.goodbooks.com.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.
Print ISBN: 978-1-68099-783-5
eBook ISBN: 978-1-68099-832-0
Cover design by Create Design Publish LLC
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Part Two
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
About the Author
Other Books By Linda Byler
PART ONE
May and Oba
CHAPTER 1
ELIEZER WEAVER WAS KNOWN AS “ELI” IN HIS FAMILY AND at school. He was a dark-skinned, husky little boy who had entered first grade in the fall, a happy, robust individual with a mop of curly black hair and dark brown eyes that danced with good humor and mischief. His wide smile was quick, often revealing the gaps where he’d lost his baby teeth.
Dressed in the conventional denim broadfall trousers, brightly colored shirt, and black leather shoes, with a bowl-shaped straw hat crimping his head full of curls to his skull, he hopped and skipped his way to school, swinging his metal lunchbox until the apple rolled against his peanut butter and honey sandwich, smashing it flat.
He walked with the children from a neighboring farm; the oldest girl, Elmina, in seventh grade, was asked to look out for little Eli. He was as quick as a young colt, and as unruly, Elmina complained to her mother, who took the situation in hand and went to see Eliezer’s mother. The slight, blond May, with the huge brown eyes, invited her in, nodded her head with growing concern, and thanked the woman for bringing the matter to her attention.
Eli was properly chastised, then cuddled on his mother’s lap as she softly told him the dangers of cavorting across a country road, occasional traffic or not. He watched her earnest brown eyes with a sincere heart, a wish to do better. Until the next time.
His father was Andy Weaver, a big teddy bear of a man, with a shock of wavy brown hair and squinty, crinkling bright blue eyes. He was a large man and so in love with his slight little wife that he radiated goodness. After five years of marriage, their love had grown to include Elizabeth and Veronica, known as S’Lizzie uns S’Fronie. The S sound pronounced before the actual name was a western way of identifying the female version of the name. In the German dialect, their mother was known as S’May.
Elizabeth was tall, with a head of unruly hair like her father’s. May thought it was the most beautiful hair, a heavy, rippling mass of brown beauty, which made her smile, though she kept the joy all to herself. Vanity and praise were not what a child needed.
After five years together, Andy had been instrumental in helping May over the rough patches, the dark times that would return from time to time, leaving her haunted by her past, in doubt of her own salvation in Jesus Christ. The birth of her two daughters were her greatest joy, but coupled with the worst of the darkness afterward. She was told she had the “baby blues” and needed to take better care of herself.
And how did one go about taking care of oneself if there was a busy two-year-old in the same house with a squalling newborn, her body racked by a near constant onslaught of colic? The mother-in-law put the baby’s left elbow to her right knee, drew her up like a pretzel as her cries increased. Then she would cuddle her, pat her back, and the elusive burps would come to the surface, but only after May had broken out in a sheen of perspiration, weak and so very tired.
It was all a part of life, although Andy said there would be no more after Veronica’s cries of pain proved to nearly undo him. Eli, however, seemed to think it was his personal duty to see the household run well, in spite of the chaos after Veronica’s birth. May would find him in the kitchen, plying the broom across the floor, carrying dishes to the sink, wiping down the oilcloth table covering.
And he sang the songs he heard from his mother’s lips, the old hymns from the brown lieda buch (songbook), his head nodding, his toes tapping as he made up a lively beat in his own musician’s heart. Singing was his way of expressing the bubbling joy of his life. He got that from his father, May would always say to herself as she watched him absorb the words from any song he heard, then hear him sing them to himself as he played on the floor.
Andy was not his biological father, but he was certainly a wonderful replacement. He genuinely loved little Eli, viewed him as the one reason he was fortunate enough to have won May’s hand. He had accepted him, along with May’s checkered past, and felt himself blessed beyond reason.
LIFE IN THE small brick ranch house near the farm had been close to idyllic, until the day May had helped her sister-in-law pack their belongings for a move to neighboring Geauga County. A stack of yellowed newspaper had been handed to her from the old man along the same road, where he resided in all his eccentricities in a house not much bigger than a chicken coop, nor more attractive.
May had spread open a page, found the article about the small plane going down somewhere in the Northwest Territory, the lone survivor listed as Oba Miller. The name Obadiah Miller, his age, and place of birth were all screaming at her from the page. Almost, she had fainted, the shock of finally, at a time she least expected it, having found a clue to the whereabouts of her lost brother.
With shaking hands and a mouth gone dry, she had managed to convey the strange phenomenon of finding the article, stumbled home to spread the page on the table for Andy to see, and then spent months trying to get in contact with her brother, the last remaining member of her family.
He had been in a hospital in the city of Toronto, Canada, but seemingly vanished after months in a doctor’s care. Finally, on the advice of the kindly bishop, they traveled over a thousand miles, found the hospital, gathered all the information possible, and after a fruitless week of spending all their savings for food and lodging, finally found Oba in a rehabilitation center on the city’s outskirts.
She would never forget the moment they were shown to his room. She found a small cubicle, with one window, where he sat in his wheelchair, gazing out over the city, his shoulders hunched like an old, old man, his elbows resting on the arms, his hands dangling toward his knees.
She felt Andy’s hand on her shoulder and looked up at him gratefully before saying hoarsely, “Oba?”
He stiffened.
They waited as one hand dropped to the wheel, turned the chair around. She would never forget the old, pale, ravaged face of her brother, the eyes so dark with pain and despair, the bitterness having taken away every spark of life or hope.
“Oba?” she said again, holding out both hands, entreating him to accept her, to recognize the fact they were here, had come so far, gone through so much in order to find him.
“It’s you,” he said softly. “May.”
Andy released her, and she flew to him, threw her arms around his too thin frame and held him as if she would never part with the poor thin person he had become. Her face was disfigured with the years of sorrow rising to the surface, tears of relief and suffering, of remembering and wondering and hoping against the crushing obstacles in her way. She cried, sobbed on his shoulder, then knelt in front of him and put both hands to his face, gazed deeply into the dark eyes so much like her own.
“Oba. Oba. Oh, Oba,” she whispered brokenly.
“Yeah, it’s me.” The voice was dry, grating, but there was not a shadow of emotion. Nothing.
May stayed on her knees, her hands going to the top of his thigh, then gasped. “Oh Oba . . .”
There was only one whole leg. One shoe. The opposite leg was simply gone, about mid-thigh, where the leg of his trousers was folded back, empty. She searched his dark eyes, shivered at the dead cold stare emanating from the depth of his gaze. His perfect features were twisted with disdain, his mouth a cold, hard sneer. It was the expression she remembered after the worst of Melvin Amstutz’s whippings.
“How’d you find me?”
He looked down at her, but it was as if his eyes saw nothing—they only served the purpose of being in his face. That beloved face, May thought. No matter h ow hard or cold, he’s here. In this room with me. May was crying softly, so he looked to Andy. One sharp look, knifelike in its unfair appraisal.
Andy stepped forward, extended a hand, his blue eyes wet with the tears that mirrored his wife’s intense emotion. “I’m Andy. May’s husband.”
A mere nod, the hand ignored. Andy let it swing to his side, then stuck both hands in his pockets. Oba’s cold gaze swung to May.
“So you got married? Surprised you’re Amish.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and sneered, one corner of his mouth lifted.
May got to her feet, her eyes never leaving the beloved face. “I did get married.” She reached for Andy’s hand, leaned against the strength of his arm. “This is my husband, Andrew Weaver. We have three children.” She didn’t say anything about Eli’s biological father. That would have to come later. “Tell me about your leg.”
“What is there to say? They cut it off. Thought I would lose the other one, but it seems to be usable. Plane wreck.”
May nodded, took a deep breath. “Yes, Oba, that’s how I found out about you.”
LOOKING BACK, THERE had been false starts and stops along the way, but in the end, they persuaded him to come live with them in the small ranch house. At first he had been belligerent and refused to go, not wanting to come within miles of the Amish community. But what was the alternative? Andy was skilled at persuasion, and he made the decision as easy as possibly for Oba. No, he did not have to join the church. How he lived was his own choice. No, he did not have to be seen or acknowledged by anyone in Ohio, least of all the relatives who had spurned him, packed him off to Arkansas to be mistreated by the hands of a cruel uncle.
“Just come stay with us,” Andy had pleaded. “We want you.”
Oba refused, and Andy and May eventually went home without him, but they didn’t give up. May continued to write him letters telling him of the children, describing what his room in their home would be like if he came, telling him how glad she was to have found him.
Oba considered returning to the wilderness, but had no stomach for it. The Zusacks had come to visit him a couple of times. Sam was a silent ghost of her old self, and Brad and Rain spouted off about the love of Christ and the redemption of his soul, but he remained firmly entrenched in his deep, dark pit of hopelessness and anger. More than ever, now that the leg was gone. He was sure Sam didn’t want half a man, and neither did anyone else, so he shook his head and told them all to get lost. He wanted to die, like a horse or a dog, be wiped off the face of the Earth and know nothing afterward.
He sat alone, sullen, mocking those around him. He got into arguments, refused any suggestion of a prosthesis, and swung around the grounds and down lengthy hallways on wooden crutches, the solid thump a warning to everyone in his path. Anyone brave enough to make overtures was almost always turned away either by a lack of interest or an angry rebuttal sending the hapless newcomer scurrying.
In less than four years, he had aged beyond reason, fully entrenched in a dark world of unhappiness, a bitterness so thick it surrounded him like an electrical charge. His rehabilitation long completed, he barely escaped admittance to the psychiatric ward of the tall cement block building next door, also known as the mental institution, the nut house. He had nowhere to go, no relatives, no friends, and no purpose in life other than clinging to his hateful attitude toward God and every human being on the face of the Earth.
Until May arrived.
It was eight and one-half months later when May and Andy returned to Toronto, and this time Oba gave in, partially. He was going with them for a visit. An indefinite stay. He’d go back to California maybe. But he would not stay with them.
The long ride home to Ohio was a nightmare of obscenities, refusal to cooperate, a stream of snide remarks or black silence. Almost, May felt the beginning of fear. Had they bitten off more than they could handle? Was Oba so far gone there could be no redemption?
May placed her trust in God alone, knowing that since He had graciously led her to Oba, He would provide for the remainder of the journey. God would not promise an easy ride, but He would be worthy of her trust.
And so Oba was put up in the spare bedroom with a comfortable double bed, a chenille bedspread in a shade of blue, two dressers, a small desk, cozy rugs, and sheer white curtains that blew in the early summer breeze, the scent of new-mown hay that made his throat tighten with remembering of his past. He remembered every road, the brick house, Simon Weaver’s farm. Everything. For two months he stayed mostly holed up in his room as he kept a firm grip on his bitter feelings. Andy and May stayed true to their promise and had no visitors, did not impose restrictions, allowed him to eat and sleep without interference. He never asked questions, answered when he was spoken to, but only when he felt like it. He watched the children with dark, brooding eyes, asked no questions, and never offered a sign of friendliness.
Eli, in his winsome way, tried his best. He hovered, asked childish questions, brought books to be read, a box of crayons and a tablet, but was always turned away. May explained Oba’s behavior as best she could, so after a few weeks, Eli continued to watch Oba but left him to himself, like an extra piece of furniture no one thought about anymore.
May tried. She explained Eli, told Oba the story of her relationship with Clinton Brown and her eventual leaving of the Amstutz farm. Yes, he remembered Clinton. Arpachshad’s brother. What did they call him? Drink? Yeah, Drink. He fished all the time. Fell in. Oba almost smiled when May laughed gleefully.
Sometimes, he would have a mostly one-sided conversation with Andy, on his good days, usually in the evening out in the backyard with the family when the heat of the day dissipated to the time when dew fell, the sun slid below the horizon, and a comfortable breeze cleansed the air. But that was as far as anyone attempted to draw him out.
On one summer evening, May had made a pudding with heavy cream, Knox gelatin, eggs, sugar, and a buttery graham cracker crust, which she kept in the Servel ice box until it was very cold and refreshing. She cut it in squares and proudly dropped slices of luscious Red Haven peaches on top, with another dollop of whipped cream. She placed six small plates on a tray, carried it out to the backyard, and announced the dessert in merry tones.
“Graham cracker fluff, guys!”
Andy leaped to his feet, took the tray, set it on the picnic table, then bent to kiss May’s cheek.
“You are the best wife in the world,” he whispered in her ear.
She looked up at him, and they exchanged a sweet longing.
Oba did not miss the magnitude of the moment. He lowered his eyes but felt the stirring of his own longing, his own desire to experience the same happiness, and just as suddenly, squelched the uncomfortable feeling with the safety of his customary bitterness.
He knew no one would want him, and he didn’t want anyone, either. The closest thing to love he had ever experienced was the beautiful girl of the North woods, Sam. The one and only girl he had ever truly wanted. But as all things in his life, it was not to be.
“This is so good,” Andy said, beaming at his wife.
“Thank you, kind sir.”
May’s eyes twinkled as she looked up from feeding little Fronie, a miniature version of herself, the blond hair braided into submission like a crown around her delicate head. Eli was pushing the peach slices to the side of his plate, spooning the whipped cream into his mouth. Oba watched as Eli looked first to his father, then his mother, before flicking his peach slices into the grass beneath the picnic table. He looked straight at Oba, a long honest look, before arching one eyebrow expertly, as if daring him to tattle.
Almost, Oba smiled. He allowed his eyes to crinkle the tiniest bit for only a short moment.
“Eli, hurry up. Finish your pudding,” Lizzie called from the end of the bench, leaning forward to see his face.
“Why?”
“We need to play horse. I’ll be Clara, okay? You be the horse.”
“Yeah! Sure!”
Eli gobbled the pudding, leaned back, and swung his legs off the bench, then ran off with Lizzie on his heels. Andy watched them go, then pushed back his plate, sighing contentedly before commenting on the children’s constant energy.
“Remember playing horse, Oba?” May asked anxiously. He had been in one of his darkest moods all day, which served to bring May a sense of failure, of foreboding.
