No Use Dying Over Spilled Milk by Tamar Myers Page A

rearrangement of the facts than a lie. If I had asked the children for permission, I’m sure they would have given it.
    “Freni’s not here right now. Jonas and Anna Beiler came by to get her for the day. She’s Jonas’s second cousin three times and Anna’s first cousin twice removed. Does that make any sense to you?”
    “Makes perfect sense, dear.”
    Sarah resumed her kneading. “There is cocoa on the stove. Pour yourselves some and pull up some chairs.”
    I poured the cocoa and pulled up the chairs, while Susannah watched expertly.
    “How are you doing today, dear?”
    The fingers moved faster. “It comes and goes. One minute I’m wondering if I should plant two rows or three rows of snap beans this spring, and the next I remember that Yost is dead. Snap beans were a favorite of his, you know. Now he’ll never eat them again.”
    Big tears rolled off her face and splashed onto the dough. Mercifully, bread dough is a forgiving substance.
    “Well, at least he won’t be hungry where he is now.” It was a very Mennonite thing to say, but even as I said it, I regretted it. If something happened to Aaron, I wouldn’t want somebody quoting platitudes, even if they were spiritual truths, to me.
    Sarah jabbed at the dough with closed fists. “Yah, Yost won’t be hungry anymore.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the door. “But they will. And children need more from their papa than just food.”
    “That’s for sure,” Susannah said. My sister has always maintained that I was Papa’s girl, and that the two of us contrived to shut her and Mama out of things. This from a woman who had Mama wrapped around her finger tighter than a tourniquet.
    “How are you going to manage the farm by yourself?” I asked.
    The heavy wooden table shook from her next blow. “Ach, but I won’t be by myself. Yost’s youngest brother, Enos, and his wife, Dorothy, will be moving in to help me. They just got married last summer and don’t have any babies yet. They’ll help me until I can get this place sold.”
    “What? You’re selling?” I remembered what Stayrook had said about the Amish pulling up stakes. Surely that had been an exaggeration.
    “Why, I think that’s a wonderful idea,” my dear sister said sweetly. “I try to make a fresh start whenever I lose someone I love.” Despite her worldly ways, Susannah is as innocent as a newborn babe. I have yet to convince her that naivete is not the arrival of Baby Jesus on Christmas morning.
    “Not that I want to move,” Sarah said more to herself than us. “All my babies were born here, and even though Yost died here… ” Her voice trailed off, and for a moment she stopped punishing the dough.
    “Then don’t move,” I said. “Maybe Enos and Dorothy can stay on permanently here. Or at least until your kids are old enough to make the difference.”
    “I’d move to Hawaii,” Susannah said helpfully. “Or Myrtle Beach. I hear it’s cheaper than Hawaii and a lot more fun. The guys are supposed to be cuter there too.”
    Sarah responded with a sob.
    I gave Susannah the kick she was due and patted Sarah on the back. Four hundred years of inbreeding may have made me undemonstrative, but it didn’t leave me without feeling. “It isn’t time to be thinking of moving, dear. Not now. Give yourself time. And plant three rows of snap beans, because I’ll come and help you eat them.”
    Sarah smiled weakly and wiped her face on her sleeve. Four hundred years of inbreeding had made her strong as nails, the occasional sob notwithstanding. “Yah, now is not the time to think about such things. Would you like to stay for supper, Magdalena? You too, Susannah. We’re having frankfurter rafts and sauerkraut salad. The children all love frankfurter rafts.”
    My mouth watered. I hadn’t had frankfurter rafts since the day—I was twelve—Mama discovered TV dinners.
    “Thanks, but no thanks,” said Susannah, who had never had frankfurter rafts. “Magdalena and