The kitchen is hot despite the breeze whipping in through the window above the sink. Sarah and I spend a few minutes gathering paper plates, plastic utensils, and sampling the potato salad, while Irene pulls a dozen or so steaming ears of corn from the Dutch oven atop the stove and stacks them on a platter. We make small talk, and I’m taken aback at how quickly the rhythm of Amish life returns to me. I ask about my niece and nephews, and I learn the kids walked to the pasture to show my little niece, who’s just over a year old now, the pond, and I can’t help but remember when that same pond was a fixture in my own life. I’d learned to swim in that pond, never minding the mud or the moss or the smell of fish that always seemed to permeate the water. Back then, I was an Olympian swimmer; I had no concept of swimming pools or chlorine or diving boards. I’d been content to swim in water the color of tea, sun myself on the dilapidated dock, treat myself to mud baths, and dream about all the things I was going to do with my life.
Brandishing a pitcher of iced tea and a basket of hot rolls, I follow the two women outside to the picnic tables. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Jacob has pulled out his pipe to smoke, a habit that’s frowned upon by some of the more conservative Amish. But then that’s Jacob for you. He’s also one of the few to use a motorized tractor instead of draft horses. In keeping with the Ordnung, he only uses steel wheels sans rubber tires. A few of the elders complain, but so far no one has done anything about it.
Within minutes we’re sitting at a picnic table, a feast of fried chicken and vegetables from the garden spread out on the blue-and-white-checked tablecloth. At the table next to us, my niece and nephews load fried chicken and green beans onto their plates. I glance over at Tomasetti and he grins at me, giving me an I-told-you-everything-would-be-fine look, and in that moment I’m content.
“Wann der Disch voll is, well mir bede.” If the tables are full, let us pray. Jacob gives the signal for the before-meal prayer. Heads are bowed. Next to us, the children’s table goes silent. And Jacob’s voice rings out. “O Herr Gott, himmlischer Vater, Segne uns und Diese Diene Gaben, die wir von Deiner milden Gute Zu uns nehmen warden, Speise und tranke auch unsere Seelen zum ewigen Leben, und mach uns theilhaftig Deines himmllischen Tisches durch Jesus Christum. Amen.”
O Lord God, heavenly Father, bless us and these thy gifts, which we shall accept from thy tender goodness. Give us food and drink also for our souls unto life eternal, and make us partakers of thy heavenly table through Jesus Christ. Amen.
Upon finishing, he looks around, and as if by unspoken agreement, everyone begins reaching for platters and filling their plates.
“The kids have grown so much since I saw them last,” I say as I spoon green beans onto my plate.
“It seems like yesterday that Little Hannah was a newborn,” my sister says with a sigh. “They grow up so fast.”
Jacob slathers homemade butter onto an ear of corn. “Elam drove the tractor last week.”
Sarah rolls her eyes. “And almost drove it into the creek!”
“Like father like son,” William mutters.
Irene pours a second glass of tea. “Katie, do you and John have any plans for children?”
I can tell by the way the pitcher pauses mid-pour that she realizes instantly her faux pas. Her eyes flick to mine. I see a silent apology, then she quickly looks away and sets the pitcher on the table. “There’s tea if anyone’s thirsty.”
“Maybe they should get married first,” Jacob says.
“I love weddings.” Sarah shakes pepper onto an ear of corn.
“Any plans for one, Katie?” Jacob asks.
In the interminable silence that follows, the tension builds, as if it were a living thing, growing and filling up space. I’m not sure how to respond. The one thing I do know is that no matter what I say, I’ll be judged harshly for it.
“Let’s just say we’re a work in progress.” I smile, but it feels dishonest on my lips because I know now that this Pandora’s box has been opened, it’s fair game.
“Work?” Jacob slathers apple butter onto a roll. “I don’t think getting married is too much work.”
“For a man, anyway,” Irene says.
“A man’ll work harder to stay out of the house.” William doesn’t look up from his plate. “If he’s smart.”
“I think Kate’s placing the emphasis on the ‘in progress’ part.” Tomasetti grins at Irene. “Pass the corn, please.”
“In the eyes of the Lord, the two of you are living in sin,” Jacob says.
I turn my attention to my brother. “In the eyes of some of the Amisch, too, evidently.”
He nods, but his expression is earnest. “I don’t understand why two people would want to live like that.”
Embarrassment and, for an instant, the familiar old shame creeps up on me, but I don’t let it take hold. “Jacob, this isn’t the time or place to discuss this.”
“Are you afraid God will hear?” he asks. “Are you afraid He will disapprove?”
Tomasetti helps himself to an ear of corn, sets down his fork, and turns his attention to my brother. “If you have something on your mind, Jacob, I think you should just put it out there.”
“Marriage is a sacred thing.” He holds Tomasetti’s gaze, thoughtful. “I don’t understand why you choose to live the way you do. If a man and woman choose to live together, they should be married.”
All eyes fall on Tomasetti. He meets their stares head-on and holds them, unflinching and unapologetic. “With all due respect, that’s between Kate and me. That’s the best answer I can give you, and I hope you and the rest of the family will respect it.”