At that point, my sadness turned to anger. I was mad at all of them, at Bobby and Lydia for going off and probably having sex in a dirty old garage, at Haley for betraying me and getting drunk and acting like a slut, at Doug for trying to pressure me into drinking, at Reed for showing his true colors. And, I was mad at myself for having been such a Pollyanna. Done with the lot of them, I climbed into the truck and slammed the door, deciding I would stay there until everybody was ready to go. Despite my rage, at some point I must have fallen asleep.
The next thing I knew, I was lying across the front seat, the door was open, and someone was tugging at my foot. I opened my eyes, surprised to see Reed standing there beside the truck, his hand pulling at my shoe. I sat up, and immediately I knew that a fair amount of time must have passed, because he was as high as a kite.
“Something’s wrong,” he said, his eyes heavy-lidded, his body leaning side to side.
“What?” I snapped, still angry.
“Something’s wrong. Over there.”
Blinking, he pointed, and in the direction of the Schumann’s home I could see an odd red glow. I got out of the truck and stood on the door-frame, getting higher to see better. From there, the “something wrong” was clear.
The Schumann’s house was on fire.
FIFTEEN
The next hour was a blur. As Reed stood there looking stoned, I began shouting for the others. Doug and Haley, still half drunk, clothes askew, came running from the shadows as Bobby and Lydia emerged from the garage. All four of them spotted the fire at the same moment, and then we all made a mad scramble to get to the farmhouse.
“The truck will be faster!” Bobby yelled, so we all jumped in the back and he took off driving along the edge of the cornfield, finally slamming his brakes to a stop in the Schumann’s backyard.
Like many Amish farmhouses, the Schumann’s place was a series of additions and expansions each joined at one corner, creating a stairstep effect. From what we could see, the part that was on fire was the furthest section out, the addition that had been built for Lydia’s grandparents when they were still alive, a sort of in-law suite known among the Amish as a Dawdy Haus. That was an incredible relief, because as far as I knew, currently no one was living in that part of the home.
Still, if we didn’t act quickly, the fire could spread to the rest of the house. We moved as fast as we could, Lydia leading us to the source of water and showing Bobby how to use the pump so it would flow through the hose. I called for help from the phone shanty out back and then ran around the house, trying every door until I found one that was open. I ran inside yelling, with Lydia and Reed right behind. Between the three of us, we found Lydia’s seven-year-old brother, Caleb, and her six-year-old sister, Rebecca, and got them out the front door and onto the lawn safely. The children were both in their nightclothes, and they stood there shivering in the heat, watching wide-eyed as the Dawdy Haus was consumed with flame.
“Is this everyone?” I screamed to Lydia over the roar of the fire.
“No! I don’t see Ezra or my parents!”
Once he heard that, Reed ran back inside to search for them while Lydia herded the other two siblings around back to help throw buckets of water onto the fire. When fire trucks pealed in the distance, I ran toward the road to flag them down. Obviously, I wasn’t thinking clearly, because by that point the flame had grown so large that there’s no way they could have missed it.
Three trucks responded to the call, and soon the place was swarming with men and women in firefighting gear. We were told to move back and stay out of the way while they tried to do their job. It wasn’t until then that I realized Reed had never come back out of the house. Lydia was already frantic, insisting that her parents and little brother were still in there somewhere. I grew just as frantic. Joining in her cries for help, I begged them to save Reed and prayed furiously for his safety.
Another five minutes passed before he finally emerged. Like a phoenix from the ashes, he came stumbling from the house, the unconscious body of Lydia’s three-year-old brother, Ezra, in his arms. He handed the child over to a professional and then simply fell forward onto his face on the lawn. His entire back and both arms were black, and for a moment I thought he had put on a jacket. Then I realized what I was seeing wasn’t a jacket at all. It was his skin.
I didn’t remember much after that, though eventually the fire was brought under control and Reed and Ezra were whisked away to the hospital. Lydia’s parents had not turned up, and with a lot of hushed whispers, Caleb and Rebecca were sent home for the night with some of their Amish cousins—though Lydia refused to leave until her parents were found. Police appeared on the scene, and we had to repeat the story of what had happened over and over. No one knew how the fire had started, but at least the firefighters had managed to stop the blaze from traveling much further than the washroom that connected the main house to the Dawdy Haus.
Finally, in the early hours of the morning, our worst fears were confirmed when the charred remains of Lydia’s mother and father were discovered. At first, no one understood why they had been in the Dawdy Haus because their bedroom was in the main house. It wasn’t until the police announced that one more body had been found on the scene that it all made sense. That third body was a tiny one, not much more than six pounds, and apparently had been only a few hours old.
I didn’t understand at first but later it was explained to me that Mrs. Schumann and her husband had obviously gone out to the Dawdy Haus that night because she had been in labor. That was how the Amish often did it, giving birth to their children at home with only a midwife in atendance, sometimes not even telling the other family members what was happening until the next morning, after the child had been born, cleaned up, and placed neatly in its cradle.
Later, Lydia would struggle greatly with guilt, knowing she should have sensed that her mother was in labor when she refused lunch and dinner and had spent much of the day out of sight, supposedly resting. Worse, after Lydia had snuck out and run across the back field to meet up with the rest of us that night, Mrs. Schummann had likely been in the throes of delivery, giving birth out in the Dawdy Haus so that the younger children would not be disturbed by her cries of pain.
When all was said and done, the whole situation was a horrible tragedy for Lydia and her family. We all wondered how the fire had begun, whether from an overturned lamp, a spill of oil, maybe a leaking propane tank. What we didn’t expect was what the fire inspector finally announced after walking in a clump of dried grass along the back wall. Judging by several small cardboard cylinders found nearby, the source of ignition had been sparks from a Roman candle.
Those of us who had been out of the back field when it happened understood that we had burned the house down, we had killed Lydia’s parents and her newborn sibling.
We did not attempt to hide what had happened, nor did we lie or make excuses. We were honest immediately, saying we had been in the back field shooting off Roman candles earlier. Upon hearing our confession, the police immediately proceeded to the scene, to see if it could have been possible to set the house on fire from so far away.
Once they got there, of course, they found a bunch of empty beer cans as well as several roaches, a roach clip, and some rolling papers near the fire pit. They also found the casings from several dozen spent Roman candles, and all sorts of burn marks in the nearby trees and cornstalks—probably from the Roman candles that had shot out sideways from the fire. Upon further examination, evidence of sexual activity was found in the garage and out behind the big oak tree. We later learned that when Reed’s clothes were cut away from his body at the hospital, a small baggie of marijuana had been found in the pocket.
Suddenly, what had looked like a tragic accident quickly turned to a crime scene, not to mention a scandal of monumental proportions. The five of us—Bobby, Lydia, Doug, Haley, and I—were arrested. Along with Reed, who would be in the hospital for a good while yet, we were charged with everything from reckles
s endangerment to involuntary manslaughter. Once we had been processed and Haley and I were identified as juveniles, the others were charged with corruption of minors as well.
Of course, our parents and their lawyers were on top of things quickly. One by one, we had all been released by morning. Considering her limited involvement and the extenuating circumstances, Lydia’s charges were dropped. The rest of us weren’t so lucky. For the next several months, our lives became a haze of depositions, media bombardments, trials, and sentencing hearings. In the end, we each had our own cross to bear.
Convicted of reckless endangerment and involuntary manslaughter, Haley and I were both sentenced to a year of house arrest and a year of probation.
Convicted of reckless endangerment, involuntary manslaughter, and corruption of minors, Bobby was sentenced to six months in jail and a year of probation.
Convicted of reckless endangerment, involuntary manslaughter, corruption of minors, and public drunkenness, Doug was sentenced to eight months in jail and a year of probation.
Convicted of reckless endangerment, involuntary manslaughter, corruption of minors, and a misdemeanor drug charge, Reed got a year in jail and three years of probation. As the oldest one there, the judge had come down hardest on him.
For the rest of our lives, we would all have to live with the knowledge that our actions had caused the deaths of three innocent people. Beyond that, the worst part for me and Haley—worse even than the claustrophobia of house arrest, the humiliation of probation, the constant invasion of privacy by the media—was the way the kids in our high school reacted. At first, because of our age, our names weren’t released, but rumors spread like wildfire and soon everyone knew who the two minors in the Dreiheit Five had been. After that, people we had thought were friends turned their backs on us. Girls gossiped about us. Boys taunted us—or came on to us, thinking we were big-time partiers. The stoners even made a few overtures of friendship, which would have been funny if it weren’t so sad. “Slut” was painted on our lockers. Roach clips were left on our desks. Condoms were put on the antennas of our cars.
Even the teachers who had so highly praised my schoolwork the year before could now barely look at me.
Everyone assumed the worst.
No one gave us the benefit of the doubt.
Through everything, all I kept thinking about was that here I was—a virgin who had never smoked, never drank, never took drugs—being accused of all sorts of things by people who had done far worse. Their judgment was relentless.
With house arrest, we were allowed to go to school and to work, but that was it. My bedroom slowly became my prison and my safe haven, all at the same time. By the end of the year, I chose not to stand for graduation. Instead, I received my diploma in the mail, and then I cried for three days.
The only thing that helped me hang on to my sanity were the letters that came in a steady flow from the Amish community. Somehow, they knew how badly we needed to hear that we were forgiven, that we were being prayed for, that life was going to be okay. Even Lydia and her siblings wrote, though little Ezra’s letters weren’t much more than scribbles on the page. Rejected by our own community, we were embraced by the very community we had wronged. When my house arrest ended, I actually got in my car and drove to Dreiheit and made myself stand there in the back field of the Schumann’s property and contemplate all that had happened that fateful night. I wanted to curse God and turn my back on Him for good, but in the midst of my hurt and rage I could not forget the kindnesses that had been shown to me by the Amish in His name.
Finally, I had simply knelt down on the ground and surrendered, asking God to come back into my life, fill me with peace, and make me whole again. Thinking of the Amish and how quick they had been to forgive, I knew that I also had some people I needed to forgive—like rotten friends and insensitive teachers and cruel strangers. I had to forgive intrusive reporters and unethical tabloid publishers and gossipy neighbors. When I finally opened up and let all of it go—all the hatred, all the shame, all the resentment—then that huge, aching, empty place inside of me immediately began to fill up with something else, something much bigger than any problem this world could throw my way.
I had given up to God my resentments and He had given me back His peace.
As the sun set in the sky that day, I had heard the sound of footsteps and opened my eyes. When I looked up, it was to see a young, bearded Amish man heading my way, trailed by two preteens, also Amish, who seemed concerned by the sight of me kneeling there crying. As they got closer, they recognized who I was, and they insisted that I come up to the house with them. Flanked by Lydia’s younger siblings Caleb and Rebecca on one side, and her older sister’s husband, Nathaniel, on the other, I accepted their invitation and went into the home that my actions had helped to burn.
Though the Dawdy Haus had not been rebuilt, otherwise, the place looked the same. All evidence of the fire was gone, the washhouse repaired, the smoke damage to the main house taken care of. Inside, I was met by Lydia, who simply wrapped her arms around me and held on to me for a long time. We all cried then, but they were good tears, tears of healing.
Sitting there at their table, sharing a meal, catching up with all that had happened in the last year and a half, I had learned more about how Lydia’s older sister, Grete, her husband, Nathaniel, and their baby, Tresa, had moved into the farmhouse soon after the repairs had begun, and with Lydia’s help had taken over the raising of their younger siblings. Aided by the whole Amish community, what was left of this family had managed to pick up the pieces and go on. I knew they missed their parents, but they seemed to be okay in spite of that. Most importantly, they seemed to harbor no ill will whatsoever, not toward any of us.
In the months that followed that heart-healing encounter, I found myself spending more and more time out in Lancaster County. Haley’s mom gave me a key to her house and let me come and go—something I did far more often those days than did her own daughter, who wanted to be left alone and seemed to be assuaging her pain in other ways. Conversely, I found more healing and restoration by allowing myself to feel the embrace of the Amish community. I accepted every invitation that came my way—for meals, for family gatherings, even for an Amish hymn sing. Throughout all of it, I was gaining strength and courage and the confidence that had been stripped away from me in high school.
When my probation ended, I went away to college out of state, ready at last to start fresh.
I was in for a rude awakening.
The problem I found was that no matter how much I wanted to leave the past behind and move on, as long as people continued to recognize me, that simply wasn’t going to be possible. There were whispers as I passed by. There was the occasional proposition and catcall. Still, I managed to rise above most of it and endure my freshman and sophomore years.
In the fall of my junior year in college, Bobby and Lydia announced their engagement. I went home for the wedding, a sweet, simple affair in Dreiheit that I hoped would mark a new beginning for both of them. The reception had been held in the fellowship hall of their church, and I made the regrettable mistake of conversing with a woman who sat down next to me at one of the tables. She was extremely warm and friendly, and soon the two of us were chatting away like fast friends, something I didn’t do very often with strangers.
Eventually, she asked me the inevitable question, what did it feel like to be back in Dreiheit, to see my brother and Lydia tie the knot despite the heartbreak in the aftermath of the fire. Usually, I deflected such questions, especially from people I didn’t know. But she was so kind, so open, and my emotions were already running high from being back in town and from seeing my brother get married.
Needing someone to confide in, this time instead of avoiding the question, I answered it honestly. I told her exactly how it felt, how I worried that Bobby was marrying Lydia more from guilt than love. I talked about the night of the fire and how it had been completely twisted by the press into something much mor
e sinister than it actually was. I talked about my life since, how I wanted to move on but every time I tried, someone was there to remind me, to harass me, to make false assumptions about me.
“If it hadn’t been for the way the Amish responded,” I had told her, “with grace and forgiveness and love, I never would have survived these past few years. In fact, given the torment I suffered in high school, if not for them I would probably have killed myself. Thank the Lord, the embrace I felt from the Amish community was probably the only thing that helped me find my way through.”
The evening ended well, Bobby and Lydia headed off on their honeymoon, and I went back to college.
One week later, I was in the checkout line at the school bookstore when I saw the new issue of a nationally published tabloid. On the cover was a photo of my face, and along the bottom the words “Saved from Suicide by Amish Embrace.” Heart pounding, I bought the issue, ran outside to a secluded place behind a row of bushes, and vomited.
Later, alone in my dorm room, I sat down on the bed and forced myself to read the article. I knew before I even started it that it had been written by the woman who sat next to me at the wedding reception. For the most part, she had taken what I told her and turned it into a sympathetic piece about how hard it is to get on with your life once you have been convicted of a crime. But the quotes she chose to use verbatim all made it sound as if I were blaming everyone else in the group for what happened, as if I didn’t deserve the punishment I had received, as if I had done no wrong. Worse, my comment about how I probably would have “killed myself”—purely an expression of speech—she had treated as literal. Apparently, after talking with me she had interviewed several doctors and a psychiatrist, and the article was full of comments about suicide and death and depression.
Shadows of Lancaster County Page 10
