Amish Home

by Rachel Stoltzfus

  But to Lester, I say, “Wow, Lester, look, that is great news. And I am so grateful for everything your family has done for me, I can’t tell you.”

  “Ain’t gotta,” Lester says.

  I look at Miriam and the boys, who don’t seem nearly as happy about all this as I feel. And that gives me a creeping suspicion that there is a lot more to be revealed.

  I only have to say, “What, what is it?” before their guilty, suspicious stares reveal that I’m too right.

  Lester says, “You heard about these lyin’ sons of rascals, goin’ round pretending to be Amish, right?”

  I have, and I recognize this. “The people in Westington said the same thing,” I say, “but they knew all along that they were the real criminals. They worst they suspected us of being ... was FBI or, what was it, DOA?”

  “DEA,” Lester says. “I was thinking maybe IRS.”

  I shake my head, but still can’t quite get my head around what he’s saying. “See, I got ... issues with the government,” Lester says. “I gotta be wary of anybody comes pokin’ around my life I don’t know. Right?”

  My fear wells and subsides, confused by my shifting situation. “Oh, well, look, I’m not from the IRS, I’m Amish! We don’t even pay taxes!”

  “And that’d make it the perfect cover, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, no, it wouldn’t,” I have to say after giving it a little thought. I also don’t like where this is going. And the more I recall about myself, the more I’m reminded that I don’t like to be bullied. Though I do recall it’d be best if I learned to be a little savvier about the way I deal with it.

  I say, “It’s ... I’m not spying on you! You found me, isn’t that what you said?”

  “I said it,” Lester snaps at me, “and it’s every word true! Unlike the feeble stories you tell.” I cannot answer, and I do not have to. He goes on, “Yer tellin’ me you fell from the top of a cliff into that water? Ain’t no point less’n five hundred feet off those cliffs and just about any point in that river.”

  “God was protecting me,” I say.

  “Don’t you blaspheme in my house,” Lester snaps back.

  “Look, I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I landed in a deep part of the river, didn’t drown because I was drifting on my back.” He sneers at me, unconvinced. So I add, “You found me, not the other way around! How could I know that would happen, or what you’d do with me? And don’t you think if I were some government spy that there’d be others nearby? You think they’d just leave one of their own people in some shack for ... um, how long has it been?”

  “Three weeks,” Lester says with a slow blink of his eye, unimpressed with my efforts to turn this around. “Anyway, yer right about all that. Turns out yer no kinda agent, way too young. What’re you, sixteen?”

  “Then ... why can’t you take me to Smicksberg? You can drop me off outside of town and I can walk in alone.”

  “Maybe, if you could walk, which you can’t.”

  “So put me on a horse, we’ll send it back, I promise!”

  “Ain’t got n’a horse!”

  “Oh, come on,” I say, my voice getting louder, higher pitched, more frightened. But my confusion pushes me past the point of caring. I know they think I’m afraid.

  I am afraid. But who else other than an innocent person would be?

  I say, “Look, those people in Westington, they’re very dangerous, they tried to murder me, like I told you!”

  “I know you told us that.”

  “Well, I haven’t lied about anything else, have I?”

  Lester shrugs. “Not that we know’d fer sure.”

  “Well, what do you think? Look at me, I’m not dangerous, I’m no criminal. I’m a frightened, lost young woman, an orphan now. Can’t you find it in your hearts to help me?” They linger in the long, considered silence. I add, “Please! My Daed is back there. He might even be alive! We have to get to help so they can go find him and get him out of there!”

  “If those Westington folks is all you say they is, what makes you think yer pops’s still kicking?”

  “I ... I don’t know, not for sure. But if there’s even a chance—”

  “The chance is a lot bigger for me than for you, honey.”

  “No, it’s not! This is a human life we’re talking about! So what if you don’t pay your taxes? You’ll work something out!”

  “Sure, me dyin’ behind bars. I got boys to raise, can’t you see that?”

  “And I don’t want to intrude upon that, I really don’t! Can’t you just get me close enough to town, somebody’ll find me? Drop me off and I’ll wait a few hours so you can get safely away. I’ll tell everyone I’ve been foraging, sleeping in a hollow log—”

  “You think they’ll believe that?”

  “They’ll believe it if I tell them! And if you help me get home and save my father, I’ll tell them anything you want!”

  Lester nods slowly, chewing his own tongue as Miriam shakes her head. Lester says, “See, now, that’s the kind of thing a cold-hearted lying murder like yourself would say.”

  “What? How can you—?”

  “You just admitted you’d say anything you had to, that you can get people to believe your satanic lies, just because yer so pretty and baby-faced and yer goodie-goodie fake Amish nonsense! You’re a two-faced lying murderer and yer gonna pay fer yer sins, child ... starting right now!”

  Miriam screams out, “No, Lester, don’t!”

  Lester grabs his Springfield rifle from one corner of the shack and, in a flash, has it cocked and pointed right at me.

  Miriam shouts, “Please, Lester!”

  But Lester’s murderous attention is fixed on me. “Now you tell me the truth!”

  My blood is cold, my limbs numb. I sit, barely able to speak, much less run or defend myself. I know I’m only a hair’s breadth away from being killed. And all I can do is say, “I did tell you the truth!”

  “Lying harlot! Godless slut!”

  “Why would you call me that? Why would you think that?”

  “What kind of a person would murder an innocent old Amish woman in her bed, usurp her family, carry on like the child-bride of the devil himself?”

  I can barely answer him, and the only thing I can offer is another question. But there is no question big enough, no single answer to unwind this horrible riddle.

  Or is there?

  Finally, Lester explains, “The name Sarah Zook ring a bell?”

  “Yes,” I say softly but without any pause or doubt. “Yes, she’s my aunt. We were on our way to live with her in Somerset, but—”

  “But you decided to murder her first?”

  “Stop saying that!”

  “Well, you didn’t do it personally,” Lester says. “You played your part out here, while your so-called Daed went up to Somerset and did the deed. Pretty convenient, him being disappeared and stone dead and all ‘at. He’s out d’ere now, something else I gotta worry about, plus there’s you. Maybe you have an escape, or I march you back into town personally, you pin the whole murder on me. Then you meet up with him and make off with the goods.”

  “What goods? My aunt doesn’t have anything worth stealing.”

  Oh no, I think, not Aunt Sarah too! God, why?

  But I say, “No, that’s not true! Why would we kill my aunt?”

  “‘Cause she ain’t ‘cher aunt! Are we still playing this game? Yer no more Amish’n I am. We’ve heard about you Westington types, now we finally caught one o’ya.” I sit terrified, my body shaking at the end of that rifle. There’s no convincing this man, not now. I’m so horrified by the news of Aunt Sarah’s death that I can hardly collect myself to try to convince him of anything.

  But I know it must have been somebody in Westington. “We told them about her,” I say as I work it out, “they knew we were expected. After they killed Daed and thought I was dead, they knew they had to silence her or she’d bring in a whole investigation looking for us.”

  �
��And how you figure they made it look like you did it?” Lester asks me.

  “Well, you said it yourself. It’s pretty convenient, with Daed being disappeared and all. This way we’re the guilty ones, no matter what. Least this way we’re not the victims, and nobody’s looking for anyone who might have buried us in some nearby woods.”

  Lester, Miriam and the boys look at me as a silent shroud falls over me. Lester doubts, but at least I feel that he’s not certain of my guilt, and that’s something. Trapped out here with them, at the mercy of that rifle and of Lester’s angry judgment, that’s all I’ve got to keep me alive.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “How long are you going to keep me here?” I ask Miriam tiredly the next day as I limp around the little shack. My legs are getting stronger, the stinging pain in my back finally subsiding.

  Now the pain is coming from my heart and my soul.

  Miriam says, “Why don’t you just concentrate on getting better?”

  “What for? Look, I didn’t kill anyone. And even if I did, that doesn’t mean you can just make me a prisoner here.”

  “Lester says it’s like havin’ you under house arrest.”

  “No, it’s like kidnapping,” I say. “How do you think the authorities are going to like that? Listen, Miriam, whatever tax problems your husband has, those are nothing compared to this. This will get you thrown in jail too, and put your kids into the foster system. You don’t want that.”

  “If yer tryin’ to sweet-talk me into keeping yer alive, that’s the wrong tack, girl.”

  “You’re not really going to—?”

  “S’up to Lester what happens,” Miriam says, “he the man of th’ house.”

  I limp around, my mind becoming frantic. I can’t run away, I realize, I can barely walk. I could try to knock her out with something, a frying pan maybe, then hobble off into the woods, lay low, try to make it to the nearest road. No, I’d never make it out alive, I realize. There has to be another way.

  Wait, I tell myself, bide my time, then when I’m stronger, make a break for it.

  But for how long? I have to ask myself. How long before Daed’s luck runs out back in Westington? No, I can’t just sit around waiting.

  But I know I don’t have a choice. Even either of those two pale, bony boys could hunt me down in these woods, not to mention mean, leathery Lester himself. I can’t run. And I can’t fight. So all I really can do now is wait and try to regain my strength.

  If I live that long.

  “Listen,” I say, “we’re not so different, Miriam. I ... I lost a child too; not one of my own, but, my baby sister. And I know you lost a girl, that’s where that toy came from, maybe a lot of the sadness in this house too.”

  “You just hush your mouth, child—”

  “No, Miriam, it’s time you faced these things—”

  “I done faced ‘em! Our little girl’s dead, ain’t nothin’ we can do about that! You bein’ here ain’t got nothin’ to do with that!”

  “But it has everything to do with letting me go! Don’t you see, I ... I’m not your daughter, of course, but I am somebody’s daughter, and that’s much the same. I’m a human being, anyway, a human life, and a child of the Most High God, just like your own little girl—” She flashes angrily, so I quickly add, “—Whatever beliefs you traded in under the privacy of your own roof. But one thing we all have in common is that ... we love the ones we love, and we miss them, and we don’t often have a chance to balance things, to make one thing right, and another thing, well, just a little less painful. ”

  Miriam stood up and walked off, without so much as a grunt in response.

  ***

  The next day Miriam’s got me sitting on her chore stool, scrubbing her family’s filthy rags in the same metal basin she washes the food plates in. I sit bent over the basin with a soggy rag in one hand and a clump of homemade soap; pressed animal fat and plant extracts, I’m guessing.

  Stanley and Stonewall are guarding me, though they’re not armed (which surprises and gratifies me). But I’m still not fit enough to be able to make a break for it, and Miriam and Lester seem to know that.

  The boys know it, too.

  “I’m so glad you boys are here, makes me feel so much ... safer. ‘Course, I do have the Lord to protect me. Do you boys know anything about the Lord, about Jesus, or ... ?”

  They stare at me blankly, like twin ghosts with red hair and freckles, shirtless and bony, filthy and smelly.

  I know how dangerous this is, going against Lester’s express orders not to talk about the Bible. But it’s the only strength I have, the only thing I can draw upon to help get me out of this situation. I remind myself to be cautious.

  I try to smile as I clear my throat and keep scrubbing. “Well, it’s just like having a family, really ... ” A family, I think to myself, trying not to get bogged down with melancholy. Have to stay focused! I say, “There’s a daddy, that’s God, and even a mommy, kind of, if you count the Mother Mary, and really, you can’t count her out, can you?” I chuckle at my little joke, but they just stare at me blankly.

  I go on to say, “And there’s Jesus, the Son. And the rest of us, we’re like the other children, all of us cousins and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters to one another in a great big family. See?”

  Stanley just stares at me, but Stonewall nods, his eyes watering. Stanley notices, then gives Stonewall a jab to the ribs with his elbow.

  “Y’know, there are a lot of great figures in the Bible, and you’ll note I don’t call them characters, like a lot of people do. Characters are from fiction, figures are from history, right?” I look over, tension growing between the boys as Stonewall fights the urge to agree with me and finally stand up to his brother’s twin tyranny. “There was King David, who slew the giant Goliath. And he’s also one of the most widely read and often-quoted writers of all time! And there was Moses, who led his people out of Egypt; all kinds of interesting people. Y’know, I look at you boys and think, well, you’ll be men soon enough, ready to take your place in society, ready to stand up and make your mark on history. And I’m sure you boys won’t fail when a Goliath or a King Herod stand in your way.”

  Stonewall shakes his head, even puffing out his chest a bit. Stanley jabs him with his elbow, but Stonewall pushes back, glaring at his brother. The boys are locked in a contest now, one I hope their father doesn’t take too keen an interest in. And though I feel badly about causing a rift between them, I know it’s for a good cause. Anyway, no matter how crude or cruel this man Lester may be, he can’t be any match for Jesus or God or anything in the Bible. He’s no Herod, he’s no King Sol. David and Moses and Jesus are three of my personal heroes, no reason they couldn’t be of just as much value to Stanley and Stonewall. And if this shift can be turned to my advantage later, surely that will be according to God’s plan; if my own humble efforts can further that wondrous cause, so be it.

  Unless it backfires on me and results in my brutal death at the hands of my captor, which is also possible.

  But I wouldn’t be the first person in history to risk my life for the Bible and the truths it can reveal. Surely, that’s a purpose worth having, a cause worth fighting and dying for. I only hope I’m not the last person willing to make that sacrifice, though it’d be best if nobody was ever called upon to make such a sacrifice again, myself included.

  ***

  I am walking through the woods. These are the same woods that nearly claimed my life not so long ago; at least they look the same. Another dream; another nightmare. Odd how the beauty, the delicacy, the intricacy of God’s creation can blur into a haze of life, it strikes me, a smear of conflicting and individual expressions that all become one big, mindless experience; like the woods or the skies, I reflect, or a wheat field.

  Or like life itself.

  But I’m not about to be chased again. As I wander through these woods, sun-dappled and alive with chirping birds and feeding fauna, I realize I’ve been running for too long; m
y whole life. But I’m here now, and I have learned to accept that this is where God wants me to be, and I won’t fight God’s will anymore. I may not understand it, and sometimes I may not like it; I may even disagree with it from time to time.

  But I’m beyond fighting it now.

  I have surrendered to whatever God wants; and now I realize that what God wants for me is this.

  So I roam the woods, a place of beauty and terror, of life and of death. But I sense no evil here in the woods, no criminal conspiracies, no corruption or cowardice. There is the perfect natural balance of light and dark, of Earth and sky, of predator and prey.

  Leaves flutter and branches shake as a nearby hemlock flutters out of its nest, crying out as it sails into the sky.

  Something frightened it? I wonder. But ... what? I look around and see nothing, my instincts searching the blind spots and reporting nothing of any concern.

  Just a bird, I tell myself, turning to walk on.

  I recall from King David’s Psalm 96:12, Let the heavens be glad, and let the earth rejoice; Let the sea roar, and all it contains; let the field exult, and all that is in it. Then all the trees of the forest will sing for joy. Before the Lord, for He is coming, For He is coming to judge the earth. He will judge the world in righteousness. And the peoples in His faithfulness.

  Yet, I feel a strange ill-ease, something telling me, warning me; things aren’t right. This is not where God wants me to be.

  I feel suddenly alone, and I call out for my parents.

  No answer.

  And I know why.

  I walk deeper into the woods, branches crackling under my feet. My heart beat gets just a little faster, by legs nervous, even trembling slightly.

  Don’t worry, I tell myself. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway.

  I take another step, out from between a larch and a Colorado blue spruce, and I feel my left ankle getting caught in an upraised root of some kind. I turn and try to pull backward and out from under the room, but there seems to be another root behind my ankle, a thick one. I twist my foot to slide it out at an angle, but there doesn’t seem to be any use. My foot is firmly bound in a tangle of roots.