I hated them. They smelt of death. I wouldn’t have come except for Sarah.
“You have to, he was your cousin,” she said. Of course, she was right, but it stuck in my craw and my spine was rigid and stiff as a board.
Papa’s eyes shone and Mama wept when we drove up the dusty drive to the old home. You can always spot Old Order farms—they’re the ones that are neatest, with no electric wires.
Before the dust settled back on the Porsche, Zeke was out the door and all over me. I was glad I was still in jeans—farm dogs are always messy and Zeke’s paws were perpetually soiled.
“He still remembers you,” Papa smiled.
Zeke was wiggling like a puppy—like the little golden bundle of fur I first held ten years ago—a retriever with a tongue as bright as the flame from a lighter. There was a lump in my throat that I choked back—but finally, gave up and fell to my knees burying my face in his soft fur.
When I looked up he was laughing—yeah, Zeke was one of those dogs who actually could do that and his joy was infectious.
Suddenly, I remembered Sarah. I scrambled to my feet and saw her standing alone holding her straw hat in front of her red polka dot dress and smiling like she had just come home—which in a way, she had.
Mama had already gone to meet her with arms outstretched—there was no avoiding Mama when she love-bombed and Papa—he was rocking on his heels the way he always did and smiling.
Welcome home Jared.
Ten years of finding my way, rising up through the Wall Street maze to occupy that elusive corner suite—and all done at age twenty-five.
The latest corporate wunderkind, the Journal said and I relished the feast. Sarah was the dessert. Daughter of the Barrington’s of Long Island and heiress to the family fortune—but that could have concerned her less.
When she heard I was raised in Little House on the Prairie style she seemed to melt and let down her defences.
We were married the next month.
It had been too long and I knew it. Sarah loved my folks and was always pushing.
“C’mon Jared, let’s drive up and see them.” I resisted until it was easier to stay away then go. But now Luke’s death—kicked by a horse, and here I was back again.
I noticed the buggies tethered near the barn and the clan gathered for the funeral wake. I just couldn’t attend the service at the meetinghouse or the procession to the cemetery—it was too much for me.
Just being here was effort enough.
“Where’s everybody?” I asked mechanically, knowing exactly where each would be.
“They’re all inside waiting,” Papa said. His eyes implored me and I looked away. The black outfits and broad brimmed hats disgusted me, not to mention the women in long dresses and bonnets. They smelt of death and I wanted no part of it.
Sarah and Mama were laughing and talking. Zeke was camped out at my feet. Papa and I were standing uncomfortably—well, maybe not so much Papa, maybe just me.
Finally, Mama came and put an arm around me guiding me back toward the farmhouse with its huge wooden porch. Papa and Sarah fell in behind us. As we drew nearer the house, I heard laughter from the half-open windows and the unmistakable voice of Uncle Werner telling a joke.
Once inside, all was a blur. The warm smells of baking, the sea of faces. Rough hands shook mine or clapped my shoulder. My throat fell dry and my lips were like bark.
All my movements were like a wooden soldier’s and my expression the same, no doubt as well.
The only silence was when papa said Grace and thanked the Lord for us as well.
Sarah quietly brushed away a tear and Mama clasped her hand so tight I thought it would break—until I saw Sarah smile.
Only once had I seen that smile—the day I walked down the aisle.
She was home and she was happy.
I was the skeleton at the feast.
