by Linda Byler
Emma blurted out, “He has a girlfriend, for your information.”
No response. Elvin, apparently, decided to change the subject.
“So why didn’t you ever join the church?” He was stripping four golden marshmallows from a forked stick.
“Personal question. Make me one of those, Elvin.”
“But why didn’t you?” Eva persisted.
There was a long silence.
“I guess because I never felt as if I fit in,” he said finally.
“You wanted to drive a car, right?”
“Not just that. I have nothing against driving a horse and buggy at all. I like horses. Especially these high-stepping ones they’re driving nowadays. But after I found out I was adopted, I felt as if I was living a lie.”
Elvin shook his head.
“Yeah, that wasn’t handled right. You should have been told before you started school, especially since so many other people knew. I remember the way it used to bother me a lot.”
“How did you find out?” Eva asked.
Elvin handed a graham cracker spread with peanut butter and a chocolate square to Matt, who left his chair to scrape off the burnt marshmallow, lifted his face to insert half of it into his gaping mouth.
Matt chewed, swallowed, looked around for a wet cloth to wipe his fingers.
“I got in a fight in vocational class. I won, but the other boy yelled the truth as he was walking away. I went home and asked my mother, who turned white and plunked down in a kitchen chair. She never could explain to me why they hadn’t told me sooner.”
“I remember. You stayed living there until you were nineteen or twenty, right?”
“Something like that.”
“Where did you go?”
“Just down the road. I had a good job. The same one I have now.”
Emma wanted to ask what he did, but figured he didn’t need to know she was even mildly interested. She could not imagine what he would have gone through, at that age. Adolescents were already an insecure bunch, or at least she had been in vocational class. After eight grades in a one-room school, being well-acquainted with all your classmates, you were thrown into a school basement with fourteen-year-olds from the far reaches of the community, and it was a real jolt. After the age of fifteen was reached, you were finished with school, sent to work on the farm or wherever employment was legal. Equipped with basic arithmetic, spelling, reading, rules of driving a horse and buggy, German reading and comprehension, every young person was expected to thrive within the community, and most of them did. Everyone had the security of knowing what was expected of them, where they would belong in the future, living in a close-knit circle of family and friends.
But to find out you were not born into the Amish family, to know somewhere there was another family who did not adhere to the ordnung and chose not to keep you for whatever reason, must have been traumatic.
Emma looked at him, found him staring into the fire with a dark brooding look. She wanted to know who his original family was, where they lived, and whether he had ever found them. She weighed her curiosity with her pride. Curiosity won.
“Do you . . . did you ever find your biological parents?” she asked, her voice gravelly, so that she had to clear her throat.
He never raised his eyes, just leaned forward to grasp a metal stick and thrust it into the fire, sending up a shower of sparks.
“My mom. I found my mother.”
His voice was low, and he did not raise his eyes but continued stirring the fire. He offered no more information, and no one made an attempt to question further. An uncomfortable silence settled over the group. A nighthawk called its plaintive cry, followed by an echoing one. Matt dislodged a log that fell into the red hot embers, scattering the flames.
Eva rose from her chair, turned to collect plates, marshmallows, and crackers.
“I’m going to call it a night,” she said.
Her husband rose to help.
Emma looked up. “You can get to bed first. As soon as the coast is clear, I’ll use the shower. If there’s any hot water left over.”
“Feel free to use the facilities the campground provides,” Eva answered, a bit prickly after the tone of Emma’s voice.
Emma wished she’d have brought her own tent. Why had she thought there’d be more space in the camper? She remembered the luxurious beach house with her own bedroom and bath.
After the couple disappeared through the side door of the camper, the silence became even more intense. Emma willed Matt to get up and go to his tent, wherever it was situated. Even better, he could simply get into his truck and drive home. She did not like this arrangement at all, could not imagine getting a good night’s rest on that stupid fold-out by the table.
She wanted to go home to Dena, her mother, and the rest of the family in the comfortable farmhouse where nothing was awkward or uncomfortable, where the sound of children and laughter filled up all the empty spots. Where life was predictable, scheduled with hard work, meal times, and companionship.
“I should not have agreed to this,” she said, without thinking.
He gave a low laugh.
“Not because of you. It’s this nighttime situation. It’s awkward.”
“You can have my tent. I’ll sleep in the truck.”
“Of course you won’t.”
“You want me to stay?”
“No.”
“You’re not afraid of the dark?”
“No.”
When he got up and left without further words, she was surprised. He could have offered a goodnight, couldn’t he? She thought of the easy banter with Ben, the way he kept talking, entertaining her with his easy opinions, so that conversation was as easy as the ebb and flow of the ocean.
A searing sense of failure was followed by the heaviness of missing him, longing for his good looks and yes, his touch.
Where was he? Did he ever think of her? Her mind sought every rational avenue of excuses why he had not contacted her the remainder of the summer.
Perhaps he wanted to finish the work in North Carolina before dedicating his life to her. Even now, there would be a letter in the mailbox at home. He would be coming to Crawford County. He would. By Christmastime they would be dating, perhaps a wedding in the spring. She would wait till fall, if he wanted to get married in the traditional month of November. For the hundredth time, she dreamed of how she would feel, standing beside his tall, handsome form as the bishop solemnly pronounced them man and wife.
She lowered her hand on her drawn-up knees and whispered, “Ben. Ben.”
“Sorry to bother you.”
She sat up quickly, to find Matt standing on the other side of the campfire, holding a backpack.
“You don’t have an extra toothbrush, do you?”
Oh, for Pete’s sake, she thought. Use your hairbrush.
“I don’t.”
“It’s okay. I’ll drive to town. I think I remember a Wal-Mart.”
“Now? It’s late,” she said.
“They’re open. Want to ride along?”
Emma surveyed the camper, could still hear Elvin and Eva’s low voices. She thought about how she had only brought light pajamas and no robe. Not very modest.
“I could buy a robe. Looks like I’ll need one.”
“Get your purse.”
That was how she found herself in the front seat of the pickup truck, headed out the gravel drive and onto the macadam road. He did not speak, so she offered nothing, either. If he was comfortable this way, she would be, too.
The road stretched in front of them like a moonlit ribbon banked by trees on either side, the tall mountains appearing black, formidable sentries of the night. There were no oncoming vehicles, only an occasional speed limit sign or an advertisement on some bedraggled billboard. The wheels hummed steadily, the slightly open windows providing a soft hissing sound.
A large yellow deer-crossing sign appeared on the right. Emma had just opened her mouth to speak when her e
ye caught a movement on the left. She screamed as a huge animal lunged from the trees, was suspended in mid-air before Matt hit the brakes, turned the steering wheel to the right, trying to avoid the impact, and failing.
The right wheel skidded across the shoulder of the road as the large, antlered deer hit the fender, was thrown across the hood and up against the windshield.
Matt fought for control, but they ended up in a steep forty-five degree angle down a small ravine by the side of the road, the restraint from their seat belts their saving grace.
Emma experienced a stabbing pain across her shoulder, the belt across her stomach leaving an uncomfortable ache.
“You okay?” Matt asked, reaching over to touch her shoulder.
“I think so,” she answered shakily.
He reached to unfasten his seat belt, then tried the door, which opened easily although at a strange position. He slipped out, then looked back.
“Just stay where you are till I find out how bad it is, okay?”
She nodded, but hadn’t really registered what he was saying.
She shoved both feet against the floor to loosen the seatbelt, then tried the door, which seemed to unlatch and swing out alright. Gingerly, she turned, winced as she moved her left arm to hold on to the door handle as she slid to the ground.
The grass in the roadside ditch was wet with dew, but the night was warm, so there was no need to grab a sweater, although she found herself shivering.
As headlights appeared behind them, she saw the bulk of the dead deer on the road, watched as Matt stepped out to flag the oncoming vehicle. She was relieved when the car slowed, drifted off to the side, and came to a stop. A door swung open, followed by the form of an extremely overweight man who shouted in a stentorian voice, words Emma could not understand. He lumbered over in a rolling gait, stood over Matt and continued his unclean diatribe.
Emma wanted to crawl under the pickup truck, or creep away into the bushes, but she stayed where she was, watching Matt as he stood, absorbing the bitter tirade, his hands by his sides.
She thought of his strength, the ease with which he could push this man out of the way, or worse.
“Look, if you’ll give me a minute, I’ll have him off the road, okay?” Matt spoke in an even voice, but Emma could hear that he was restraining himself.
The man yelled something about flashers and cones, then stood watching as Matt walked away, careful in his approach of the dead deer, before grabbing the antlers and dragging him. It took a few tries, Matt heaving against the enormity of the deer, but eventually he got it all the way off the road, then turned to join Emma at the truck.
“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked.
“Yes. There’s nothing wrong with me except I’d like to punch that . . .”
Matt gave a low laugh.
“Not everyone is a Good Samaritan, Emma.”
They watched as the angry motorist returned to his car and sped off, spinning gravel. They walked over to see the deer, with the aid of a small flashlight, a nice eight point buck that had met an unfortunate death.
“Poor thing,” Emma murmured. “He just wanted to cross the road.”
“He should have waited,” Matt said dryly.
“But still.”
“Look, I’m going to back this truck out of here, if I can. If not, I’ll have to call someone.”
Emma walked up to the side of the road, waited in the eerie silence till he entered the truck and started the motor. She didn’t like the black mountains looming over the dark forest, or the strange ribbon of road that contained massive men who shouted obscenities for no reason other than a hapless deer being killed. She had not been raised in a culture where things like this were everyday occurrences, and she felt dirty. Cursed.
Matt shrugged it off as if it was nothing, and perhaps to him, it wasn’t. She couldn’t help but admire him for the quiet, even way he’d simply gone about his business and ignored the words that assaulted him.
She moved away as the night was illuminated by a pair of headlights approaching, followed by the whine of a motor. She shrank back as far as she could, wishing Matt was not in his truck. She did not breathe easy until the car flashed past, leaving the night silent except for the tired chirping of crickets, the other insect sounds that seemed strangely comforting now. She watched as Matt kept trying to move the truck, easing on the gas, backing it up out of the ravine.
She found herself holding her breath as the truck inched backward, rocked, settled, and stopped. Then again, just as Emma thought he was attempting an impossibility, the left rear wheel caught on a rock, giving him the traction he needed, and in one attempt the truck came up and out of the ravine.
The door was flung open, followed by Matt, who went around to the front, bent to inspect the damage, which was surprisingly minimal.
He gave a low whistle. “Not bad.”
“I thought the windshield would break,” Emma offered.
“We’re lucky. You brought me good luck.”
Emma did not know what to say to that, so she said nothing.
“You don’t believe in luck?” he asked, as they fastened their seatbelts.
“Well, yes. But I think God controls everything.”
“Not for me, He doesn’t.”
His words were bitter, laced with irony.
“Of course He does. He cares the same for all of us.”
Matt pulled out onto the road, swung right, and sped up.
“See, that’s what I don’t get. It’s all God this and God that, how He cares so much, does this and does that, and all of it is like a puff of smoke. There’s nothing to it.”
For the second time, Emma was shocked. How could he spout off like this? He had been raised in an Amish, God-fearing home.
“You’re wrong, Matt. There is something to it.”
“Well, I disagree.”
They moved through the night, surpassing the speed limit, his profile like stone. He offered no conversation and neither did she.
CHAPTER 15
THEY PASSED A SHEETZ, A KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN, A FEW GARAGES. There was litter lying about like strange birds, flapping each time a car or truck passed. Cars filled with young people moved beneath the yellow streetlights, music turned up so high Emma could feel its repercussions. At the stoplight, an eighteen wheeler moved in beside them, the diesel engine throbbing.
“I’m no atheist,” he offered. “I just don’t believe God cares for someone like me.”
He looked over at Emma, and she looked at him. She smiled, a smile of genuine feeling that illuminated her face. He could not look away.
“There’s good news for people like you.”
“Are you an Amish evangelist?” He laughed, then immediately felt badly for mocking her.
“The light’s green,” she said, just as a horn honked behind them.
It was awkward walking around Wal-Mart with someone she barely knew, looking for an item located in women’s sleepwear. She was grateful when he said he’d meet her at the bench out front.
She chose a simple white robe of polyester and cotton, an inexpensive thing that would serve the purpose of retaining her modesty, and found him waiting for her at the promised spot, a small bag protruding from his shirt pocket.
“Find what you needed?”
“I did.”
“God was with you, wasn’t He?” Matt asked sarcastically.
Deeply hurt, Emma said, “Stop that,” and kept her eyes averted as they crossed the sidewalk and climbed into the truck. He offered no apology, and she did not try to ease into a forgiving conversation.
In the morning, she was peevish, having slept very little. The air was damp and gray, her coffee was too weak, the campfire was blackened and soggy, and no one else had stirred so far. She tried lighting a fire, with no luck, then settled into a camping chair with both hands wrapped around the lukewarm mug of coffee, staring into the charred, cold ashes.
With all her heart, she did not want to be
there.
Her friends had a lot of nerve, asking her to accompany them to some remote camping area with a guy who turned out to be a genuine nutcase. All of it, the summer in North Carolina especially, seemed to choke the last shred of hope and goodwill toward anyone or anything.
She stared into the cold ashes, shivered in the moist air of morning, then whispered a prayer to get through the day. Just help me get through one day at a time, dear God. You know I don’t want to be here, you know what I do want, so please, please let Ben contact me. Keep him safe and happy, and if it is Thy will, help us to get together. You know I love him.
Chilled now, she got up and crept softly into the camper for a blanket, a light throw she’d seen Eva unpack, then returned to the camping chair. She looked up to find Matt returning from the camp store, carrying a cardboard tray containing two large Styrofoam cups. He was wearing a T-shirt with a plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned, a clean pair of jeans, and his hiking boots. His hair was still wet and it sprung into tight, glossy black curls. She watched his approach, that lumbering gait, as if his upper body was too heavy for his knees.
“Good morning,” he offered. “Sleep well?”
“I did not.”
He laughed, the low, rumbling, mirthless laugh.
“We’ll go get you a tent and an air mattress.”
Wonderful proposition, but she shook her head. Elijah had woken three times, the camper shook with even light footsteps, Elvin snored like an old dog, and Eva coughed all night. But still. She didn’t need a tent.
Her eyes were heavy with lack of sleep, itched and burned. She drew up a fist to rub at the left one, grimacing.
“I brought you a coffee.”
She looked up, blinked.
“Thank you. That was very thoughtful.”
She picked up her mug and dashed the contents to the ground.
“Cold and weak,” she said. Then laughed. “Like me this morning.”
He came close, handed her a cup. She smelled aftershave, or cologne, an earthy woodsy scent.
“This should be hot.”
Then, “I put cream in it, I saw you do it at Sheetz.”
“Perfect.”
She took a sip. It was hot, and very good. She smiled at him as he sat in the opposite chair. He smiled back, a small, hesitant kind of smile that did not reach his eyes.
