She breathed in the dense aroma of the harness shop. ‘‘Ask me now.’’
‘‘Well, it’s rather complicated. It could take more than a few minutes.’’
His eyes were earnest. He must have legitimate questions. She frowned, because at second glance he seemed almost tormented.
He leaned near. ‘‘It’s regarding Zeke Hochstetler.’’
She had told herself she would never see him again, but Ben’s request seemed urgent, and she worried there was possibly more trouble for Esther.
All right, she told herself. This doesn’t count.
‘‘I’ll talk with ya, Ben. When?’’
‘‘Tonight?’’
She nodded. ‘‘After supper?’’
‘‘What time would that be . . . for you, I mean?’’
She stopped to think when she’d be finished eating and with kitchen chores. ‘‘About six-thirty or so.’’
‘‘Sounds fine.’’ He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her. ‘‘Where should we meet?’’
‘‘Same place . . . just farther up. Near the big white pine tree on the north side of the road.’’
He nodded as if he knew which one.
‘‘It’s the largest tree round these parts. Some say it’s nearly four hundred years old.’’
‘‘You seem to know trees, Annie.’’
She shrugged. ‘‘A little, maybe. But you should talk to Zeke ’bout foliage and whatnot.’’ She waved to him then and headed toward the door, feeling suddenly tongue-tied.
‘‘Annie . . . didn’t you forget something?’’ He held up the small sack with the wrong bridle rosettes inside.
She felt ever so foolish. He must surely know how he affects me.
‘‘Oh, puh! I forgot what I came for.’’
She walked back to the counter, unable to prevent her smile. I’ll see him tonight! her heart sang.
Lou and I are two peas in a pod . . . both attracted to fellas we can’t have. Her throat suddenly felt terribly dry. Am I a Dummkopp to meet Ben?
He was pleased Annie had agreed to see him, and marveled at the landmark tree she had chosen for their meeting spot. The towering white pine must have been seventy feet high, its blue-tinted evergreen boughs spreading a good thirty feet. He parked his car beneath it, opening the door and getting out to wait for Annie.
He would have preferred it if she didn’t have to walk all this way to the car, and on such a cold day, even though the afternoon had been fairly sunny.
She was right on time, and he could not suppress his excitement at first sight of her as she rounded the bend, wearing snow boots, a long black coat, gray gloves, and a blue-and-gray plaid scarf wrapped around her slender neck. All we need now is a toboggan, he thought, wishing they might have some fun together instead of the heavy discussion ahead.
He waved, moving toward her, wanting to help her along, even though the road was now nearly clear of snow.
She greeted him with a smile but did not speak, and for a good portion of the drive she remained silent. He rambled, taking the opportunity to tell about his first-ever mud sale . . . the several household tools and a small phone table he had bid on and won.
Then, when he could think of nothing else to say, he brought up what Zeke had told him about his brother’s strange disappearance and death. ‘‘The boy’s body was dumped in an Amish field nearby,’’ he said slowly. ‘‘Zeke told me this.’’
‘‘Wha-a-t?’’ she gasped, covering her mouth. ‘‘Oh, surely not. When did this happen?’’
He looked at her, realizing their conversation would be less askward if he pulled over somewhere—at a fast food place, perhaps . . . anywhere.
As he drove, eyeing the various options for parking the car, he summarized what Zeke had told him about the shocking discovery of a child’s body and the hushed-up burial. It seemed to drive Zeke mad.
‘‘I can’t believe it. Zeke’s brother is actually dead?’’ Annie whispered, pressing her hand against her chest. ‘‘I always worried it was so, but now . . .’’
It was all he could do not to reach over and pull her into his arms. She was shaking now, trembling from head to toe.
‘‘This is the most terrible thing,’’ she said. ‘‘Knowing Zeke and Esther as I do, it’s doubly difficult.’’
She began to cry, unable to speak.
He turned into the nearest parking spot, leaving the engine running to provide heat. Then, reaching for her hand, he held it firmly in his own, glad she did not pull away. ‘‘This information is not to be disclosed, Annie. For some reason it is to be kept secret, known only by your church brethren.’’
‘‘My father knows of this?’’ A look of horror crossed her face. ‘‘Oh, Ben!’’ She struggled further, letting go his hand to look for a handkerchief in her coat pocket.
Wiping her eyes, she sighed. ‘‘Why wasn’t this announced from the housetops? The People would want to know. They would!’’
He explained that the only reason he had told her was to solicit her advice. ‘‘Since I don’t know the inner workings of your community. . . . I don’t want to sound selfish, but I don’t know what to do about a request Zeke made of me.’’
‘‘Well, what’s that?’’
He wanted to hold her hand again but would not use her emotional state as an excuse. ‘‘Zeke wants me to go to the police. He’s anxious for the murderer to be found . . . and every day that passes makes it harder.’’
‘‘But if the death happened all those years ago, what’s it matter?’’
‘‘That may be precisely the thinking behind keeping the death quiet, I don’t know.’’ He told her he was in favor of making the call to the police. ‘‘But there is the problem of Zeke’s being shunned, too, if this gets out . . . and how difficult would the news be for your church folk if it should be known that Zeke was behind my reporting to the local authorities?’’
Suddenly he thought of detectives combing the quiet farmland for clues, disturbing the peace. ‘‘What should I do, Annie?’’
‘‘I’m glad you came to me with this.’’ She turned completely in the passenger’s seat, studying his face, her eyes lingering. She had warmed to him; he was sure of it. ‘‘You must follow my father’s wishes, Ben. Tell Zeke no.’’
‘‘Can you explain?’’
‘‘The will of the Lord God and heavenly Father of us all, is the only explanation I can offer,’’ she began, going on to say it was imperative for the People to revere and obey the church leaders.
‘‘Even when it goes against the legal system?’’
‘‘The People aren’t obligated to answer to the world. When the brethren deem things ought to be a particular way, then it’s best to follow.’’ She shook her head slowly, and there was a catch in her throat. ‘‘And Zeke knows better than to pull you in on this.’’
‘‘Does his temper often get the better of him?’’
‘‘Sadly so. I’ve heard bits and pieces from Esther.’’ Annie looked down at her folded hands.
‘‘Is he abusive? Cruel?’’
Annie nodded slowly.
‘‘I assumed it,’’ he said.
‘‘Best be keepin’ that quiet, too.’’
He looked at her fondly. Sad or not, she was absolutely beautiful. He held his breath to keep himself in check.
‘‘I won’t contact the police,’’ he heard himself say.
‘‘Denki, Ben. Thank you ever so much.’’ She touched his arm, the slight pressure sending a charge of electricity through it.
‘‘No, it is I who must thank you, Annie.’’ He didn’t attempt to explain, but he felt she understood.
He must put his hands on the steering wheel and drive her home now that he had the direction he needed. It was unfathomable why he should be sympathetic to the wishes of these so-called brethren of Annie’s. Yet he wanted to do what was best, in the long run, for his troubled friend Zeke.
During the drive back, Annie talked nearly nonstop. By the
time he turned onto Frogtown Road, he practically thrilled to hear her words: ‘‘This must be our secret, Ben. Ours alone.’’
He readily gave his promise. He cared about Annie’s People, with their confusing yet simple ways. More than anything, he wanted to soak up every aspect of the Plain life, to share in its meanings—riddles or not—and he wanted to spend as much time doing so with Annie as she would allow.
So when it was she who asked if they could get together and talk again, he was astounded.
‘‘Of course,’’ he said.
‘‘Wonderful-good.’’ She smiled.
And, as before, when he braked the car, she nearly leaped out, this time coming around to his side even before he could get out. ‘‘Could we . . . uh, go skatin’ somewhere?’’ she asked when his window was down.
‘‘Roller or ice?’’ He laughed.
‘‘On the ice might be best,’’ she said, hands on the base of the window, eyes shining. ‘‘I know a place.’’
‘‘This Wednesday I can get off work a bit early.’’
‘‘Just whenever you say.’’
He opened his car door and got out. ‘‘I’ll look forward to it.’’
‘‘Well, I best be headin’ home now, jah?’’ she said, lowering her head. ‘‘I really should. . . .’’
He reached out to clasp her arms, resisting the temptation to draw her near. ‘‘Teach me all you know about your life here, Annie. Everything.’’
She raised her eyes to his. ‘‘Well, sure. I believe I can do that.’’
With that, she turned to go.
He leaned against the car door, his chest pounding as he watched her walk down the left side of the road toward the two golden lights flickering in Preacher Zook’s farmhouse.
Chapter 20
Annie did not ask Lou if she wanted to take a so-called journey down memory lane. She simply started pulling out boxes of Lou’s letters from beneath the bed, organized by year and month.
The afternoon weather had turned dismal following the noon meal, looking nearly as miserable as Annie felt inside about Isaac’s death. But she must not let on what she knew to Mamm or others. And she could not mope around. It was enough that her father was aware and had not revealed it to the People.
Whatsoever things are pure . . . lovely . . . of a good report . . . think on these things. She remembered hearing her older brother Christian’s wife, Martha, recite the Scripture. Why Martha had it memorized, Annie didn’t know. But there was something about the verse that kept her from forgetting it, too.
Today being Wednesday, she was glad to have her chores caught up, content, as well, to pass the time by reading aloud the letters in the upstairs bedroom. Lou, in turn, laughed or shook her head in astonishment, or asked to see proof of a comment or phrase in her own childish handwriting.
‘‘Here’s one that might make us cry,’’ Annie said, lowering her voice, lest she be heard by resting Mammi Zook. It was one of the letters where Lou had shared the pain of being an only child.
‘‘Sometimes I think of you as more than my pen pal, Annie. I try to imagine that you are here . . . or that I am there with you. Do you think I’m crazy for such imaginings?
‘‘Oh, and if you’re nodding yes when you read this, then I must also say that having a sister is the best feeling of all.
‘‘Have you always felt as lonely as I do? I’m only asking because you sometimes write how nice it would be to have at least one sister instead of six brothers.
‘‘Well, I don’t blame you one bit if you long for a sister.And someday wouldn’t it be fun if we could meet? Maybe you could visit me in Colorado. But, just between us, the most exciting thing would be for me to see you there in Amish country. I’m not kidding!’’
Annie looked up from the page, reciting the letter’s date. ‘‘You were only eleven and a half and already curious about Plain life.’’
‘‘Hey, I remember writing that.’’ Lou rose to look at the stationery, decorated with Beanie Baby stickers. ‘‘Good grief, does anybody write snail mail anymore?’’
‘‘Well, I do. And Mamm writes to relatives in other states, too—they pass circle letters around, which is fun. Ever hear of one of those?’’
‘‘No, but I like the sound of it. Hey, kind of like what some people do by forwarding emails. I’ll have to show you sometime when we’re at Julia’s.’’
Annie nodded, but immediately her thoughts were with Esther. ‘‘Mamm whispered to me yesterday that evidently Zeke got his wish.’’
‘‘Esther’s home?’’
Annie said it was so. ‘‘Maybe things will be better now for her and the children.’’
‘‘I hope you’re right,’’ Lou said, ‘‘but typically abusive spouses continue to mistreat those they love. Patterns don’t stop because of a short separation.’’
‘‘Well, Daed’s goin’ to be overseeing Zeke now, as I understand it.’’
‘‘Not Irvin?’’
‘‘Far as I know, Irvin and Julia aren’t to be contacted by either Zeke or Esther . . . but, knowin’ Esther, she won’t be able to cut off that close friendship. They’ve become ‘sisters in the Lord,’ as she likes to refer to their newfound kinship.’’ Annie felt a twinge of envy.
Lou walked to the window and looked out. ‘‘Julia’s an amazingly special person . . . I can see why Esther would want a close connection with her, in or out of the Lord . . . whatever sort of sister she wants.’’
Annie changed the subject. ‘‘So . . . are we done looking through these letters?’’
Returning to sit on her bed, Lou said she was. ‘‘Let’s save some for another gray day.’’
‘‘Wonderful-good.’’ Annie was careful to tuck the letters back into correct order again. Then she slid the boxes out of sight. ‘‘Ever think we were s’posed to be friends?’’
‘‘Like, uh, pure out-of-the-sky luck?’’
‘‘More like providence, like the way my father looks on 228 most everything.’’
Lou frowned, looking puzzled. ‘‘Which is what?’’
‘‘Some call it God’s sovereignty . . . or destiny.’’ Annie pondered that for a moment. ‘‘Ever think that ’bout Sam, too?’’ she asked, daring to step on Lou’s toes.
‘‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far.’’ Lou’s wide smile gave her away.
‘‘Just think of it. What if you were s’posed to write me all that time . . . then come here and meet Sam? Like it was planned somehow.’’
‘‘You really mean it, Annie?’’
‘‘Oh, I don’t know. I just wondered if maybe you’re supposed to be Amish, that’s all.’’ She threw a pillow at Lou.
‘‘Ever think that?’’
‘‘Too funny.’’ Lou held on to the pillow, not tossing it back. She clutched it to her chest, as if it were a shield. ‘‘Goodness, why would you say such a silly thing?’’
‘‘Just ’cause.’’
‘‘Spit it out, Annie.’’
‘‘Well . . . I guess I’ve gotten so used to your hair lookin’ like Mamm’s and mine, and the cape dresses and aprons and whatnot.’’ She sighed, not wanting to make too much out of what she felt.
‘‘I sometimes wonder what it would be like to revisit my modern life,’’ Lou said unexpectedly. ‘‘My mother would love to see me . . . wants me to come home for Easter. I guess it’s safe to tell you that I miss my parents.’’
Annie felt suddenly hollow. ‘‘You’d leave here . . . for good?’’
‘‘Not sure.’’
‘‘Well, I’m sorry I brought this up.’’ The last thing Annie wanted was to think about saying good-bye to Lou.
Barely two full days had passed since Esther’s return home and already she was beginning to notice the cracks in Zeke’s resolve. At first, he’d gone overboard being kind, even surprisingly helpful with Zach and John, which was heartening to her. But that lasted only from late Sunday afternoon through most of yesterday.
Already today the
re had been several pointed, even cutting remarks, mostly in regard to her required repentance. ‘‘You have no choice but to make a confession and soon,’’ he told her when he’d marched indoors to warm up.
She handed him a mug of black coffee. ‘‘How on earth can I?’’
‘‘Stubbornness does not become you, woman.’’
She would not respond and risk starting something that would only escalate, especially not with Essie Ann so small and sleeping in the wooden cradle not too far from the wood stove.
‘‘The brethren expect you to give up this nonsense about salvation within the next few weeks,’’ Zeke said suddenly. She remained silent, standing next to the sink, her weight pushing against it.
‘‘I’ll not have you under the Bann forever, Esther. Ya hear?’’
She nodded, not in agreement but in an attempt to go along.
‘‘It’s high time you submitted.’’ He was standing next to her now, close enough that she could smell the barn on his clothes and feel his strapping shoulder brushing against her. He squeezed her arm till she could hardly feel her fingers. ‘‘Ain’t right to keep your husband waiting . . . usin’ the shun against me.’’
She guessed he’d think as much. But, ach, to say it! Zeke probably didn’t care one iota about shunning stipulations. Most likely he would force her to break the rules in due time . . . once Essie Ann was six weeks old.
Ten days away . . .
Their lovemaking—if it could be called that—would then become his secret, for he would not go to the brethren with such a confession. And woe unto her if she did.
When Essie Ann began to whimper, Esther was relieved.
Zeke let go of her, and she turned quickly away, going to her newborn and plucking her tenderly out of the cradle. Without looking back, she carried her baby upstairs to nurse in the stillness of the bedroom.
Ben got his chance to ask Annie about the local trees during their long drive to the secluded pond. She was a storehouse of information, describing not only numerous leaf shapes but differing bark textures and other identifying details of the trees he pointed out on the way.
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