low dog-wood trees offered cool relief.
Because she did not appear to be leaving, Nathan had little choice but to tie off the pulley rope, wipe his dirty hands on a rag, and walk out into the oppressively hot sunshine. He shielded his eyes from the glare. “What can I do for you, Miss…”
“Mrs. Patricia Daly,” she said, digging in her purse. “I’m a social worker with Children’s Services. I’m here to make a home inspection regarding the care of an infant, Abraham Fisher.” She smiled pleasantly and held out her identification card from a brown wallet.
He blinked once or twice like an owl. “What kind of inspection?”
She slipped the wallet back into her shoulder bag. “Just routine. Nothing to worry about. Your son was admitted to the hospital for observation following your wife’s passing. In these situations, the case is assigned to Children’s Services. A follow-up visit is scheduled to make sure the baby is receiving proper care and nutrition. And please accept my deepest sympathy for your loss.”
What she just said took a moment to sink in, but when it did Nathan felt his back go rigid. “You’ve come to check if I’m feeding my boy?”
“Put in those terms my job sounds awful, doesn’t it? And I am sure you’re taking fine care of your son, Mr. Fisher, but not everyone, especially not every widower, faced with so enormous an undertaking rises to the occasion.”
Nathan shifted his weight and tucked his hands under his suspenders. “You would be better off speaking plain English, ma’am, so I don’t misunderstand your meaning.”
She nodded after a moment’s thought. “Some fathers looking after a baby alone for the first time don’t care for them properly. They don’t change diapers often enough or maybe they can’t handle a fussy eater. My job, my responsibility, is to the children of this county—Amish or English. I’ve been sent to observe Abraham and fill out a report.” She pulled out a pad on a clipboard from her leather bag and stared at him with more determination than he’d ever seen in a woman.
He looked away to gaze at the sow slumbering in her pen as her tiny piglets nursed in a neat row. “All right, then. Had I known you were coming, I would have made myself more presentable. I wouldn’t walk downwind of me on the way to the house, if you take my meaning.” She laughed much too loudly. “I do, but don’t worry, Mr. Fisher. I’m not here to describe you in my report, only your son. And we’re required to make our assessment visits unannounced.”
“So nobody puts on a dog and pony show just for your benefit?” He sounded caustic and hadn’t meant to. This
Englischer
was just doing her job and he had no cause to be surly. He’d heard that some folks didn’t take good care of their
kinner
, but thought none of them were Amish.
Mrs. Daly didn’t seem to mind. “That’s right. Some people clean up their act when somebody’s watching but go right back to their neglectful ways once my tires hit the pavement.”
As they walked toward the house, the social worker gave him a wide berth, and then she paused at the porch steps.
“Go in,” he said. “The door’s open.”
She went up the steps, pushed open the screen door, and entered his kitchen. Iris had opened every window and door in the house, and a battery fan rotated on the countertop. The room smelled of ripe peaches and brown sugar.
“Hello. Come on in,” said Iris, glancing up with flour dusting her cheeks and nose. “I’m baking peach pies before my fruit turns mushy. You’re right on time. The first batch is ready to come from the oven.”
Mrs. Daly took in the entire kitchen with a quick, perusing glance. “I don’t want to interrupt what you’re doing, and you might not want to offer pie when you know why I’m here.” She introduced herself and then repeated everything she’d explained to Nathan by the barn, omitting the reference to a dog and pony show.
Iris listened
Because she did not appear to be leaving, Nathan had little choice but to tie off the pulley rope, wipe his dirty hands on a rag, and walk out into the oppressively hot sunshine. He shielded his eyes from the glare. “What can I do for you, Miss…”
“Mrs. Patricia Daly,” she said, digging in her purse. “I’m a social worker with Children’s Services. I’m here to make a home inspection regarding the care of an infant, Abraham Fisher.” She smiled pleasantly and held out her identification card from a brown wallet.
He blinked once or twice like an owl. “What kind of inspection?”
She slipped the wallet back into her shoulder bag. “Just routine. Nothing to worry about. Your son was admitted to the hospital for observation following your wife’s passing. In these situations, the case is assigned to Children’s Services. A follow-up visit is scheduled to make sure the baby is receiving proper care and nutrition. And please accept my deepest sympathy for your loss.”
What she just said took a moment to sink in, but when it did Nathan felt his back go rigid. “You’ve come to check if I’m feeding my boy?”
“Put in those terms my job sounds awful, doesn’t it? And I am sure you’re taking fine care of your son, Mr. Fisher, but not everyone, especially not every widower, faced with so enormous an undertaking rises to the occasion.”
Nathan shifted his weight and tucked his hands under his suspenders. “You would be better off speaking plain English, ma’am, so I don’t misunderstand your meaning.”
She nodded after a moment’s thought. “Some fathers looking after a baby alone for the first time don’t care for them properly. They don’t change diapers often enough or maybe they can’t handle a fussy eater. My job, my responsibility, is to the children of this county—Amish or English. I’ve been sent to observe Abraham and fill out a report.” She pulled out a pad on a clipboard from her leather bag and stared at him with more determination than he’d ever seen in a woman.
He looked away to gaze at the sow slumbering in her pen as her tiny piglets nursed in a neat row. “All right, then. Had I known you were coming, I would have made myself more presentable. I wouldn’t walk downwind of me on the way to the house, if you take my meaning.” She laughed much too loudly. “I do, but don’t worry, Mr. Fisher. I’m not here to describe you in my report, only your son. And we’re required to make our assessment visits unannounced.”
“So nobody puts on a dog and pony show just for your benefit?” He sounded caustic and hadn’t meant to. This
Englischer
was just doing her job and he had no cause to be surly. He’d heard that some folks didn’t take good care of their
kinner
, but thought none of them were Amish.
Mrs. Daly didn’t seem to mind. “That’s right. Some people clean up their act when somebody’s watching but go right back to their neglectful ways once my tires hit the pavement.”
As they walked toward the house, the social worker gave him a wide berth, and then she paused at the porch steps.
“Go in,” he said. “The door’s open.”
She went up the steps, pushed open the screen door, and entered his kitchen. Iris had opened every window and door in the house, and a battery fan rotated on the countertop. The room smelled of ripe peaches and brown sugar.
“Hello. Come on in,” said Iris, glancing up with flour dusting her cheeks and nose. “I’m baking peach pies before my fruit turns mushy. You’re right on time. The first batch is ready to come from the oven.”
Mrs. Daly took in the entire kitchen with a quick, perusing glance. “I don’t want to interrupt what you’re doing, and you might not want to offer pie when you know why I’m here.” She introduced herself and then repeated everything she’d explained to Nathan by the barn, omitting the reference to a dog and pony show.
Iris listened
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