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barn to immerse himself in the numbing oblivion of mindless chores. While he milked or watered or fed or cleaned, he concentrated on the task at hand and didn’t allow his mind to wander. Today at noon his dear wife would be laid to rest in the small local cemetery. After the funeral, Iris’ sons would host the mourners for the afternoon meal at their home. Because he and Ruth weren’t well known, he expected only a dozen or so families at most to attend the graveside service.
    He had refused to have the customary showing in his front parlor. He didn’t want folks stomping in and out of his rented house all day. He’d never been an outgoing man, and his Ruth had been painfully shy, almost frightened of people. The sooner he put the final stage of this horrible ordeal behind him the better. Nothing would bring his sweet wife back—not prayers from the bishop or words of sympathy from the district members or a thousand tears shed over the next hundred lonely nights of his life. Only hard work and the grace of God would eventually take the pain and sorrow from his heart.
    “Nathan? Nathan!”
    He finally heard his name being called while moving hay bales down from the barn loft. “I’m on my way,” he hollered from the loft window. On his way to the house he spotted Aunt Iris on the back porch. She was about to clang the rusty old farm bell when she spotted him on the path. She waved and then disappeared into the house.
    Slipping off his muddy boots in the back hall, he padded into a kitchen smelling faintly of chicken soup.
    “Good,” she said. “I’m glad you heard me. You’d better eat some lunch and then take your shower. With the deacons and bishop meeting us at the cemetery, we shouldn’t be late.”
    Nathan washed his hands before slumping into a chair. Iris set a plate of two sandwiches, sweet pickles, and a sliced apple before him. “I thought I smelled chicken soup,” he said taking a bite of the sandwich. A simmering pot of beef, chicken, or twelve-bean soup had been Ruth’s standard fare on Saturdays. Then they could reheat the leftovers on the Sabbath without much fuss.
    “
Ach
, you’re smelling chicken and dumplings. I put them in the big roaster to take with us to eat later at my son’s house.” She seemed to be avoiding eye contact and any direct reference that it would be a funeral they were attending today. “Would you prefer to eat a bowl of that now instead of sandwiches?” she asked while filling baby bottles at the stove.
    “No,
danki
. These are fine—more than enough. I just wondered about the smell.” He took a hearty bite. With all Iris had to do, he didn’t want to appear finicky. “Aren’t you eating? Would you like this other sandwich?”
    “I’ve already eaten. I’ll be right back,” she said as she disappeared down the hallway.
    Nathan sat eating in a house that no longer felt like his home, as though he were the guest and not Iris.
    “Here we are,” she said cheerily a few minutes later. “Little Abraham is ready for his lunch too.” She set the baby carrier on the kitchen table next to his plate.
    Nathan glanced into the folds of blue quilt and saw only a pink forehead and button nose. He continued eating bologna and cheese with no particular urge to get a better look.
    “Go ahead,” she said. “Say
guder nachmittag
to your son.”
    He locked gazes with her across the room. “He doesn’t talk, Aunt, neither English nor
Deutsch
, and I don’t see the point of babbling to infants.”
    “Well, just take a better look then. He’s not going to bite you.” Surprisingly, she walked over and poked Nathan in the shoulder.
    He tamped down his rising irritation. Didn’t he have to finish lunch and shower for the funeral? Hadn’t she made a point that they shouldn’t be late? He set the remainder of the sandwich back on the plate and put the plate in the sink. “I have to get ready to bury my wife.
Danki
for the meal.” He walked into the bathroom without