“Ach, Rachel,” she stammered, dark-blue eyes flooded with tears. “I—I can’t.”
“You goose,” I replied, “sure you can! No one’s died from their wedding night so far, and if all these children are a sign, I’d say most even like it!”
It was a joy to watch my sister’s wan cheeks burn with embarrassment, and that night I suppose they burned with something entirely new. Two months later she wrote to say that she was with child—Tobias King’s child—but there were some complications, and would I mind terribly much to move down until the baby’s birth?
Now Tobias finishes reading from the Psalms, closes the heavy Bible, and bows his head. The community follows suit. For five whole minutes not a word is spoken, but each of us is supposed to remain in a state of silent prayer. I want to pray, but I find even the combined vocabulary of the English and Pennsylvania Dutch languages insufficient for the turbulent emotions I feel. Instead, I just close my eyes and listen to the wind brushing its fingertips through the autumnal tresses of the trees, to the trilling melody of snow geese migrating south, to the horses stomping in the churchyard, eager to be freed from their cumbersome buggies and returned to the comfort of the stall.
Although Tobias gives us no sign, the community becomes aware that the prayer time is over, and everyone lifts his or her head. The men then harness ropes around Amos’s casket, slide out the boards that were bracing it over the hole, and begin to lower him into his grave.
I cannot account for the tears that form in my eyes as that pine box begins its jerky descent into darkness. I did not know Amos well enough to mourn him, but I did know that he was a good man, a righteous man, who had extended his hand of mercy to me without asking questions. Now that his son has taken over as bishop of Copper Creek, I fear that hand will be retracted, and perhaps the tears are more for myself and my child than they are for the man who has just left this life behind.
AMOS
I never thought I would enjoy the day of my own funeral, yet that’s exactly what I find myself doing. Outside my and my wife’s haus, which has been scoured from top to bottom by my sisters, I watch my grandsons discard their sorrow like a worn-out garment and begin to rollick with the enthusiasm of pups. Before you can count to zehn, the knees of their best pants are stained brown with dirt, and their straw hats with the black bands have gone sailing off into the yard, causing the fine hair not constrained in the bowl cuts to poke into their eyes.
If the mothers, aunts, and sisters of these boys could see them all now, they would surely wag their fingers along with their tongues. But they can’t. They are too busy slicing schunke and mashing grummbeere, beating egg whites into stiff meringue peaks and pouring pickled chowchow into crystal relish bowls. My wife brushes a tendril beneath her black bonnet and stoops to slide an apple strudel into the kochoffe. If given another chance, I would pull that black bonnet and prayer kapp back and burnish every silvered tendril of hers with a kiss. I imagine how Verna would scold while swatting me out of the kitchen, but all the while her dark eyes would shine as she reveled in the fact that she was loved by a man no longer afraid to show it.
I imagine, too, how I would go up to my three daughters—Irene, Mary, and Ruth—who are right now filling the chocolate whoopee pies with peanut butter cream, and I would hug them. Oh, how I would hug them! All these years as husband and father, I allowed my stiff German upbringing to inhibit the demonstrativeness of my love, for I thought the congregation might perceive physical touch to be improper. Now that my mortal eyes have been replaced with something far more heavenly, I can see how my girls yearned for my touch until they became women who expected it no longer.
The banter of my wife, sisters, and daughters as they prepare the evening esse reassures my heart that theirs will mend, despite eyes still being swelled from tears and chests heaving with the flood of those they have not shed. The only one who worries me is Rachel Stoltzfus. Though she is of no immediate relation, I wish I could do something to ease the pain etched across her features because I feel responsible for it.
You see, when the heat of a Tennessee summer no longer allowed Rachel to conceal her illegitimate pregnancy beneath a shawl, she was placed amid those few who remain in the church while living outside its doctrinal parameters. The community, as they’d been taught by the generations before them, withdrew from Rachel so she could see the error of her carnal ways, ask for forgiveness, and rejoin the flock. I had always counted myself blessed that I was not bishop over a congregation that enforced the shunning. But watching everything unfold from this higher plane, I have to wonder if the shunning might be easier on the person it is placed upon. Without it, Rachel does not know her place, and the community does not know where to place her. They cannot be cruel—for what is Christlike in that?—but neither can they have her around the young women and men who haven’t joined the church and could still be lured into leaving Plain life for the glamour of the Englischer world.
Rachel
Eli and I take a seat at the far end of the five tables. Although I have no appetite, I know that I must eat or my body will not produce enough milk to supply my ravenous son. I give him a knuckle of my left hand to suck, and his scrunched face relaxes until he realizes that nothing is coming out. Stiffening his body in its cocoon of blankets, his face darkens and his mouth splits open in a silent, frustrated wail. Then he gets his breath, and oh, what a breath it is! The entire house seems to reverberate with the intensity of his screams, and I am again amazed at how much noise can come from one so young.
Placing him against my shoulder, I sing the lullaby my mamm sang to Leah and me: “Schlaf, kindlein, schlaf! Der vater hüt’ die schaf; die mutter schüttelt’s bäumelein, da fällt herab ein träumelein. Schlaf, kindlein, schlaf!” I stroke his downy hair and pat his bottom, but this does nothing to help. I am working my legs over the bench so I can go into the next room and not disturb anyone’s meal, when a hand brushes my shoulder.
Turning, I look up into the smiling face of Judah King.
“Let me take him,” he says. “You eat.” I glance down the long row of tables flanked by my sister’s family and friends, who are all watching us with a knowing gleam in their eyes.
“No,” I whisper. “They’ll talk.”
Judah shrugs. “What does that matter? They’ll talk anyway.”
With great reluctance, I pass Eli up to him. My eyes well with the image of my child tucked against a man’s work-hardened chest. I know that feeling of masculine security is not one Eli will often experience.
Judah sits on the bench across from me. I won’t give everyone the satisfaction of glancing down the table again, but inside my heart skitters against my ribs.
“What’re you doing?” I whisper, staring at my plate. “Your name will be mud if you sit with me.”
Judah tears off a piece of my brot and pops it into his mouth. Swallowing, he says, “What do I care about names?”
“You will once you lose it.”
“Do you care?”
I nod but keep my eyes where they are. The pineapple gravy pooled on the schunke and gemaeschde grummbeere has started to congeal. “Yes, I care,” I say. “But not for me. For him.” I look up long enough to nod at Eli.
“Then why don’t the two of you leave?”
“And go where?” I snap.
“I don’t know, back to Lancaster?”
“I can’t bring more shame upon my parents by raising a fatherless child under their roof. Besides, my dawdy won’t let me come back.”
Judah winces at this. Then he says, “Why don’t we just leave?”
“What do you mean?”
“You and I, we could leave the church.”
Hope causes my eyes to rise up to meet Judah’s, and I see there is not a hint of jesting in them.
“But why? Why would you suggest that?”
He looks down at Eli, whose fingers are curled around his face like a starflower. “Because nobody should live in a place where they’re not welcom
ed.”
“Oh, Eli’ll be welcomed. The community won’t punish him for my sins.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m saying that you shouldn’t live in a place where you’re not welcomed.”
“We must stop talking like this,” I say. “I’m not just going to run away with you. I—I can’t.”
Judah King extends a hand toward me, and then looks down the length of the table to where his brother sits, watching us with disapproval in his eyes. Retracting his hand just as Tobias had done at the funeral, Judah’s jaw begins to throb. “I’m not talking about running away; I’m talking about getting married.”
“So you can make an honest woman of me?”
“No, Rachel. So I can make you my wife.”
I point to the bright bundle nestled against Judah’s chest. “And are you ready to be Eli’s father, even though you don’t know who the real father is?”
“Wouldn’t you tell me if we were married?”
“Never. That’s a secret I’ll take to my grave.”
“Never?” Judah leans back on the bench and searches my eyes. “You’ll never tell?”
“No.”
He nods. “Well, I can respect that decision, but I want you to know that it doesn’t change mine. I’m leaving Copper Creek in a month. I hope you’ll have your answer by then.”
“I can’t promise I will.”
“I know. I never asked you to promise anything.”
He comes around to my side of the table and passes back my son. In just a few minutes, my arms have grown unaccustomed to Eli’s warm weight. As I watch Judah King stride out of his family home with his shoulders squared, I let myself imagine how it would be to share the burden of raising this child together.
Even with a man I can never let myself love.
2
AMOS
“Ju-dah!” Tobias’s voice zigzags across the floor like a lightning bolt. As my youngest closes the front door and shrugs off his jacket and hat, there is something stronger than frustration yet weaker than anger simmering in his eyes. Perhaps because of this, he does not enter the den where the call emanated from, but walks over to the kitchen to kiss my wife’s cheek. Her round face blossoms with love, and she reaches into the jar behind the kochoffe and passes Judah two molasses cookies.
“You want millich?” she asks as if our youngest is two instead of twenty.
Judah shakes his head and grins until his eyes sparkle and dimples appear. Passing the cookies back to his mother, he sighs and strides into the den. “Yeah?” Judah says before he’s even seen his brother. “What do you want?”
Tobias’s lips tighten. Folding his hands on my old desk, he says, “I just wanted to see how you are. You left the meal early today.”
“It being Dawdy’s funeral and all, I thought people would understand that I wasn’t hungry.”
“Yes, that’s understandable. What isn’t is why you were speaking with Rachel Stoltzfus.”
Judah slouches against the doorframe. “I’d say what isn’t understandable is why nobody will speak with Rachel Stoltzfus.”
“She’s borne a child out of wedlock. Do I really need to give you any more explanation than that?”
“Actually,” Judah says, “you do. It’s obvious Rachel did not conceive that child alone. Why aren’t measures being taken to find out who the father is?”
“Because it may be difficult. How are we to know she’s only been with one man?”
The angles of my young son’s face sharpen; the hands that have been dangling at his sides clench into fists. “Because I know Rachel.”
Tilting his dark head, Tobias rests one finger against his skull and smiles. “Do you, Judah? The two of you were just children when we moved. A lot can happen in ten years. A person can really change.”
Looking straight at his brother, Judah says, “Tell me about it.”
Tobias’s smile disappears. He refolds his hands. “Why are you being so defensive of her? Is there something between you and Rachel that I should know about?”
“No,” Judah replies, staring at the hook rug beneath the desk. “There’s never been anything but friendship between us.”
“That’s a relief.”
Judah’s head pops up. “Why? Did you really think I could be Eli’s father?”
“Over the past few months, the thought’s crossed my mind. I’d have to be blind not to see how crazy you are about her.”
“Then I guess you’re about to think I’m even crazier. Today I asked Rachel to be my wife, and she said she’d give me her decision soon.”
“Oh, Judah,” Tobias moans. “You didn’t.”
Striding up to my desk, Judah places his hands on the oiled wood. “Yes. I did. Somebody’s got to do right by that woman, and it’s going to be me.”
“This isn’t some charity act here; we’re talking about marriage!”
Judah forcefully presses his palms on top of the desk until the veins crisscrossing his hands protrude. “I know exactly what we’re talking about!”
“No, you don’t! You’re twenty years old, and you still live at home with your mudder!”
“Yeah, well, you’re thirty-two, and you’re just following in your dead vadder’s footsteps!”
It hurts so much to eavesdrop on this conversation between my sons that I wish I could turn away. Then Tobias clenches his jaw and says, “I forbid it. Now that Dawdy’s gone, I’m the bishop, and I refuse to bless your union with Rachel.”
“You wouldn’t be the one to marry us, anyway! If she says yes, we’re leaving the church. There’s no way I would keep subjecting Rachel and Eli to this community’s cruel treatment!”
Tobias looks out the window. The sky is so black and starless, I know he cannot see anything. Still, his gaze does not waver as he says, “We’re both tired; we’re both grieving. I fear that if this conversation continues, we will both say things we will later regret.”
Judah nods. “You’re right; this conversation does need to stop. But you should know that I meant everything I’ve said tonight, and I would say it all over again if we continued this conversation in the morning.”
With this, Judah pivots on his booted feet and marches toward the door. Before he opens it, Tobias calls out to him. Judah pauses but does not turn around as his brother says, “She won’t marry you, you know.”
My youngest asks once his breath returns, “And how do you know that?”
“Because Rachel won’t leave her twin behind, especially considering Leah’s condition, and if she won’t leave her twin, you will have to remain in the church to be near her. And if you remain in the church, I won’t marry you.” Tobias pauses and stares at his brother’s back. “It’s as simple as that.”
Straightening his spine, Judah says, “We’ll see,” then flings open the door and stalks out of the house.
He spends the rest of the night in the barn grieving for many things. Although the haze of my own emotions will not allow me to see his thoughts, I know the majority of his tears are not shed over me.
Rachel
After I return from the Kings’, I check in on Leah and find that she is sleeping as soundly as when I left. Her eight-month-old, Jonathan, is curled in the crook of her arm. A sparkling chain of drool drips from his mouth and connects to Leah’s nightgown like an umbilical cord. Laying Eli, who drifted off during the short buggy ride home, on the bed, I carry Jonathan over to the cedar chest to change his diaper and clothes.
Jonathan’s eyes peek open as I wipe his bottom with a soapy cloth. Although he’s known since birth that I am not Leah, once I button his pants and pick him up, his mouth nuzzles at my breast. Instinctively, my milk lets down. I carry Jonathan over to the rocking chair and unfasten the top layer of my cape dress. Latching onto me, he roots and kneads like a greedy kitten. I am about to switch sides when he stops suckling and looks up. The almond-colored liquid dribbles from the corner of his smiling mouth. I run a hand over his thin brown hair.
“You’re a sweet bobbel,” I croon. “Yes, a very sweet bobbel.”
Leah rasps from the bed, “Rachel? That you?”
“Yes, Sister. It’s me.”
Leah struggles to sit up. Even that small effort expends her energy. I watch the blue tributary throb at the hollow of my sister’s temple; her once-berry-red lips pinch with pain. Being as private as our mamm, if not more so, Leah does not often reveal her physical ailments. But I am also the one who changes her sheets and does her laundry, and I know the bleeding has not stopped since Jonathan was born.
“How was the funeral?”
I blink and look over. Leah’s eyes mirror her worry. But her selflessness would never permit Leah to worry about herself. No, she is worried about me.
“Just great,” I say. “Everyone’s so kind here in Copper Creek.”
Leah flinches. I am flooded with guilt, yet still infuriated that she has made herself sick worrying over the fate of her newly fallen sister, when she needs to focus on regaining her strength.
Contrite, I add, “No, really. It was a nice service. Tobias did a good job.”
A smile smooths the furrows plowed across her forehead. “I’m glad,” she whispers. “I wish I could have gone. To be there for him, you know.”
And when has Bishop Tobias ever been there for you? But I know this question would only fill Leah with more pain than her answer would be worth.
So I say instead, “I’m sure Tobias missed you, but I’m also sure he understands your need for rest.”
My sister’s gaze falls to her child in my arms. Tears fill her eyes.
I ask, “Vas es letz?”
“I’m not fit to be his mudder. Not—” swallowing, Leah plucks at her lank hair and thin cotton gown—“not like this. The other kinner are old enough to get by, especially with Miriam almost grown, but what about Jonathan?”
The Outcast Page 2
