Free Little Amish Matchmaker by Linda Byler Page B

made it safely to Barbara’s house, who looked as if she needed a hospital more than she needed this Numotizine. She was on the couch, her breathing raspy, her cough sounding like a piece of wood falling down the stairs.
    The house was a royal mess. As usual, Bennie wasn’t behaving, sitting on the table spreading Ritz crackers with peanut butter. He had everything all over his pants, the table top and his sister Lydia. When Isaac told him to put the peanut butter away, he lifted his face and howled. John came rushing over carrying the baby, who set up her own high-pitched yell, her bottle of apple juice suddenly disappearing as her dat rushed to the rescue.
    John glared at Isaac, got a wet cloth and told Bennie to clean up the peanut butter, which was the same as asking a pig to clean up his pen. Isaac sat on the recliner by the stove, disliking Bennie.
    He was glad to leave with Sim.
    These things, of course, were not talked about. He couldn’t tell Sim how much he couldn’t stand that Bennie. Sim would say it was a sin, which Isaac knew, but sometimes you could hardly help it.
    Sim chuckled to Isaac, saying now that was marriage, and didn’t that take the fairy story out of it? This was the real thing.
    Isaac hoped fervently Bennie would get a licking from his dad, although he couldn’t see that happening.
    “Bennie was sure making a mess,” Isaac said drily.
    “They probably didn’t have any supper.”
    Sim, too!
    Everyone stuck up for that Bennie, Isaac told Sim, and was happy to see him nodding his head in agreement. “You have a point there.”
    Isaac was glad he had spoken. Sometimes schoolboys observed things from their lowly vantage point that adults like Sim would be wise to learn.
    “You know if Barbara doesn’t watch it, that little Bennie is going to be a handful, the way no one makes him listen,” Isaac said.
    Sim agreed.
    Isaac was convinced Sim would make a great father. He was just humble enough, and agreeable, too. He took advice, and took it right. Yes, indeed, it would be a pure shame if Catherine and Sim never started dating.
    On Friday, Ruthie stood by the blackboard, wringing her hands, her eyes clearly terrified as she lifted her head.
    “I … h - h - h.”
    She stopped, searched for Isaac, found his face, then his eyes.
    Come on, Ruthie! You can do this! He didn’t say a word. His belief in her came from his eyes.
    “H - hope m - m … my h …”
    She stopped.
    Isaac’s eyes never left her face.
    He was aware of Hannah and Calvin beside him. They all waited and waited. Ruthie took a deep breath. He watched as she clasped and unclasped her hands. That day, she spoke two whole sentences, haltingly, with exhausting effort.
    At third recess, Isaac left sledding and found her sitting the porch, her feet dangling down the side.
    “Ruthie, why don’t we talk about your mam?” he asked.
    “Who told you?”
    “Teacher Catherine.”
    “I told Hannah and Dora today. It feels good. It’s … everything feels easier now.”
    Isaac grinned encouragingly. So she told him. The struggles at home, trying not to hate her mother, the relief now, knowing her problem may actually be physical.
    The following Monday, Ruthie made real progress. Teacher Catherine was beside herself with excitement. The Christmas program was shaping into a good one, molded by days of practice, pleading, cajoling, praising, the teacher at the helm guiding her Christmas ship.
    Isaac wondered if her energy and enthusiasm had all been because of Ruthie. He doubted it. Didn’t Sim have something to do with it when he came to pick Isaac up Friday afternoon? Late on purpose, then yet. Teacher Catherine was sweeping the snow from the porch, her cheeks red, her eyes sparkling as they exchanged greetings.
    Well, Isaac was done. They could just keep up all this nonsense. He was out of it.
    If Sim wanted to wait on God, he could. Hadn’t God always been slow? Look at Methuselah. He was 900 and some years old. Let Sim wait until