Christmas Visitor by Linda Byler Page B

people. Like a Sunday school class or something.”
    â€œDon’t they go to Haiti or Africa or places like that? They have mission fields. You know — serious, big projects. Why would they bother with us? They don’t know I’m a widow.”
    â€œMaybe they do.”
    â€œI don’t like the word ‘widow.’ It sounds so lonesome, or sad…or something.”
    â€œI agree, Ruth, but that is what you are now. And before we know it, it will be a year. That’s the proper time for remarriage, you know. I think you need to be reminded of that. Or do you?”
    Never in her most intimate thoughts had it occurred to Ruth that Mamie would ever suggest the unspeakable. Her face flaming, completely at loss, she knocked over the container of yogurt, and it plunked solidly to the floor, splashing the thick, creamy mess all over the linoleum.
    Leaving Benjamin in his high chair, she went to the pantry, grabbed the Cheerios box, and shook a few onto his tray. She kept her face hidden from Mamie as she got a clean rag from the drawer and proceeded to wipe up the yogurt without saying a word.
    Wisely, Mamie busied herself with the quilt until Ruth had composed herself. Then she looked up.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œWell, what?”
    â€œYou know what I mean.”
    â€œI don’t.”
    â€œYou do.”
    â€œAlright, if I do, then who? Mamie, now come on. In all of Lancaster County there is not one man who would be….Well, think, Mamie, think about it — six. I have six children. A five-month-old baby. It’s just too soon to speak of these things. And who would want all seven of us.”
    â€œWell, it’s not too early.”
    Ruth looked up quickly.
    â€œYou are one determined lady.”
    â€œI sure am.”
    Then Mamie added, “You need a dog. If Trixie were here, you wouldn’t have had to clean up that yogurt. She would have lapped it right up.”
    â€œAll I need is a dog in this house, Mamie.”
    â€œIf you had one, you’d know who is setting those boxes on your porch.”
    Ruth laughed.
    â€œThere. Now help me with this batting.”
    The soft, white middle part of the quilt was spread evenly across the rolled up backing. Then the actual quilt was tugged neatly across the top and pinned securely.
    An appliquéd Rose of Sharon pattern in deep purple and shades of green was a sight to behold, they both agreed. The intricacy of the needlework was mind boggling, and the person who appliquéd was far more talented than the quilter, they confirmed.
    â€œOh, I just have to quilt a few stitches before I go,” Mamie said longingly.
    â€œYou can stay.”
    â€œI have to wash.”
    Ruth knew, inevitably, that Fannie would do the washing, but that was none of her concern.
    â€œI have a bit of a secret.”
    Mamie spoke as she was threading her needle, so she wouldn’t have to look directly at Ruth. When Ruth was afraid to answer, Mamie went right on talking.
    â€œDo you know who John Beiler is?”
    â€œJohn Beiler?”
    Ruth’s voice was calm and quiet and so poorly disguised that she may has well have turned eagerly and pelted her friend with a thousand questions about him.
    â€œYou know who I mean.”
    Mamie drove her needle rapidly up and down through the quilt. She suddenly sat back and held up her thimble.
    â€œThis thing is too small. It pinches my finger.”
    â€œHere.”
    Ruth went to the sewing machine, located a larger thimble, and handed it to her friend.
    â€œYes, I know who he is,” she admitted.
    Seriously now, her face shining with concern and care, Mamie laid down the needle she was using and said, “Ruth, I saw at the singing, okay? I saw how he kept noticing you. And you were looking at him. Now, you need to know that he broke up with Paul King’s Anna. They say it was him.”
    Ruth nodded weakly, the color leaving her face.
    â€œYes. They say it’s