The Christmas Quilt. Patricia Davids

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СКАЧАТЬ He was poking fun at himself. She liked that. There was something familiar about him but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. “Have we met?”

       “I’m not from here,” he said quickly.

       Vera said, “I see the bishop’s wife. I want to ask her how her brother is doing after his heart attack.” She rose and moved away, leaving Rebecca to her own devices.

       The Englisch fellow said, “You’ve been deserted.”

       She heard the folding chair beside her creak and his voice moved closer as if he were leaning over the seat. Although she knew it was unwise to encourage interaction with an outsider, she wanted to figure out why he seemed familiar. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard traces of a Pennsylvania Dutch accent in his raspy speech.

       She said, “I don’t mind. I’m Rebecca Beachy.”

       There was a long hesitation, then he said, “My friends call me Booker. The quilts on display are beautiful.”

       “Are you a collector, Mr. Booker, or did your wife make you come today? That’s often the case with the men in the audience, Amish and English alike.”

       “I’m not married. What about you?”

       “Nee, I am an alt maedel.”

       “Hardly an old maid. There must be something very wrong with the men in this community.”

       Flustered, she quickly changed the subject, but he had confirmed one suspicion. He understood at least a little of her native tongue. “Have you been to one of our auctions before?”

       “No, but I know what goes into making a quilt like the ones up on stage. My mother quilts.”

       “They do take a lot of effort. I’m glad people such as yourself appreciate our Amish workmanship. How did you hear about our auction?”

       “I caught the story on WHAM.”

       Puzzled, she asked, “What is WHAM?”

       “A television station where I live.”

       “There was a story about our little auction on television?”

       “Yes, and about you.”

       She frowned. “Me? Why would they talk about me?”

       “According to the story, this auction is helping raise money for your eye surgery.” His voice was barely a whisper and fading.

       Embarrassment overtook her. The heat of a blush rose up her neck and flared across her cheeks. “Perhaps Dr. White or his nurse, Amber Bradley, told them about me. I wish they had not.”

       “I thought it odd for an Amish person to seek publicity. The Amish normally shy away from the spotlight, don’t they?”

       “We do not seek to draw attention to ourselves. We seek only to live plain, humble lives. But you know that already, don’t you? How is it that you are familiar with our language?”

       “A long time ago I lived in a community that had Amish families.” His voice cracked on the last word.

       Sympathy for him overrode her curiosity about his past. “You should rest your voice.”

       “How long have you been blind?”

       She was shocked by his abrupt personal question. Her reaction must have shown on her face because he immediately said, “I’m sorry. That was rude. It’s none of my business.”

       She rarely spoke about the time before she’d lost her sight. It was as if that life, filled with happiness, colors and the faces of the people she loved, belonged to another woman. Remembering the way she lost her sight always left her feeling depressed. It went bit by bit over the course of three years, first details and then colors, beloved faces and finally even the light. God had given her this burden. She must bear it well.

       Booker interrupted her moment of pity when he said, “I didn’t mean to pry. Please forgive me.”

       He meant no harm. It was her pride and her inability to fully accept God’s will that made remembering painful. “You are forgiven. I learned I was going blind when I was twenty. My sight left me completely seven years ago.”

       There was a long period of silence. What was he thinking? Did he feel sorry for her? Did he think she was helpless and useless? She rushed to dissuade him of such thoughts and repeated the words her bishop told her the day the last of her sight failed. “Do not think to pity me. My blindness has been a gift from God.”

       A gift meant to show her the error of her ways and lead her to repent.

       “How can you call it a gift?” His scratchy voice broke. Because of his illness, or for some other reason?

       She smiled sadly. “It is a struggle sometimes, but I know all that God gives us, whether hardship or happiness, is in some way a gift. We learn more about ourselves, and about how much we need God, during times of sorrow than we do in times of joy. I accept my life for what it is.” At least, she tried.

       “But this surgery, it can restore your sight?”

       “If God wills it.”

       “Don’t you mean if the surgeon is skilled enough?”

       “God’s miracles come in many forms. If my sight is restored by the skill of an Englisch doctor or by a flash of lightning it is all the work of God.”

       “Then I pray He will be merciful. I wish you the very best, Rebecca Beachy.”

       She heard his chair scoot back, then the sound of his footsteps until they blended into the hum of activity and voices inside the tent. A sharp sense of loss filled her but she didn’t understand why.

       A few moments later, her aunt returned and sat down. Rebecca’s hand found Vera’s sleeve. “Aenti, do you know the man that was just sitting here?”

       “What man?”

       “He was sitting in the row behind us. He’s Englisch.”

       “There are many Englisch here. I didn’t pay attention.”

       “I thought perhaps he was someone I should know, but I didn’t recognize his name. He called himself Booker.”

       “I don’t know anyone by that name. The bidding is getting ready to start. I pray your quilt does well. It’s lovely.”

       “You picked the material. I merely stitched it together.”

       Her aunt’s hands were twisted and gnarled with arthritis, making sewing and many daily tasks impossible for her. It was one reason why Rebecca chose to live with her aunt when her vision began to fade. She knew she could always be useful in her aunt’s household.

       Vera said, “I do wish you had put your Christmas Star quilt in the auction today. I’m sure it would fetch a fine price and we could use the money.”

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