A Plain Disappearance

by Amanda Flower

  The boy ran out of the barn.

  “Does he need help?” I asked.

  The elderly man shook his head. “Nee, and he will likely be offended if you offer it. He wants to do everything Timothy can.”

  I bit my lip. Did that mean Thomas would leave the Amish like Timothy had?

  Grandfather Zook pointed one of his braces at me. “I know what you are thinking. Thomas will make his choice when it is his time. He will follow Gotte’s way for his life, whatever that might be.” He then picked up a hand chisel and a rectangular block of wood from the workbench.

  Thomas led Sparky into the barn and opened his stall door. The horse walked right in. “Sparky, I’m very disappointed in you.”

  I covered my mouth. Thomas sounded so much like his mother when she was reprimanding him.

  Grandfather Zook began to whittle at the piece of wood. “What is wrong, Thomas?”

  A tear rolled down Thomas’s cheek, and his forehead bunched in frustration. “I’m supposed to give Chloe a driving lesson, and Sparky won’t listen.”

  Grandfather Zook snorted. “You can’t tell Old Spark anything when his mind is made up. That’s why he never made it very far as a racehorse. He wouldn’t listen to the trainer.”

  Sparky lowered his ears as if he understood everything his master said.

  Grandfather Zook struggled to his feet and adjusted his metal braces onto each arm. He suffered polio as a child, and the titanium braces helped support his crooked legs. “Don’t you make that face at me,” he told the horse. “You know it’s the truth.” He turned to Thomas. “Grankinner, Old Spark’s been out for a long time and he is cold and tired.” He shot a curious look at me, then, “You can give Chloe a driving lesson on another day.”

  Thomas pouted.

  I bumped his shoulder. “It’s lunchtime anyway, Thomas. You don’t want to miss your mom’s cooking because of me, do you?”

  His face cleared. “Nee. She’s making meatloaf sandwiches.”

  Grandfather Zook poked his young grandson with the end of one of his braces. “You’d better hurry up then, or your daed’s going to eat your portion. He’s been working hard since the sun was up and is mighty hungry.”

  Thomas’s eyes went wide, and he dashed from the barn.

  Grandfather Zook shook his head. “One of these days that kinner will learn to walk from place to place.”

  I smiled, then glanced at the wood and chisel on Grandfather’s workbench. “What are you making?”

  “Napkin holders.” He pointed to eight of them lined up on the workbench. Each completed napkin holder had an Amish scene chiseled into the front of it—a quilt, a horse and buggy, and a one-room schoolhouse.

  I stepped closer to them and ran my fingers along their glossy surfaces. Grandfather Zook had sanded even the deepest crevice smooth. “I didn’t know that you made these.”

  “From where do you think Timothy gets it?” He dug the chisel into the outline of a leaf. “Do you think I sit in my rocking chair all day and eat my daughter’s meatloaf sandwiches?” His mischievous grin took the bite out of his words.

  “Kind of,” I teased back.

  He snorted. “I make these and other small Amish kitchen utensils, like paper towel holders, wooden spoons, and letter holders to sell to Garner Dutch Furniture Warehouse. That’s Levi’s business. He is the man you just met. They come every two months or so to pick up more projects. They put them up for sale in their warehouse, and when they sell, we split the money. It helps the family and keeps my hands busy.”

  “So you sell them on consignment.”

  Grandfather Zook knit his bushy eyebrows together. “I don’t know that Englischer word.”

  “It just means what you described.”

  “Consignment,” he said, as if tasting the word. “I must use this in conversation with my son-in-law. It always riles him up when I add an Englischer word in my speech.” He began sanding the wood, which would be the front of another napkin holder. “When you two took Old Spark out this morning, Timothy said that you’d only be gone for an hour or two. That has long passed.”

  I perched on an empty wooden stool. “I know. We were held up.”

  His silver, bushy eyebrows shot up, and my face grew hot. I swallowed. “Timothy and I were, um, delayed. He took me to the Gundy barn.”

  He nodded. “A nice spot.”

  “Yes. It was nice until . . .”

  He raised his chin and examined my face. “Something bad has happened.”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “We found Katie Lambright there.”

  “Katie? She’s a quiet girl. Was she there by herself?”

  “Yes and she—she was dead.”

  Grandfather Zook’s chisel clattered to the floor. He started to struggle out of his seat to reach it.

  I hopped off my seat to collect the chisel, and placed it on the workbench. “Timothy left with Chief Rose to tell the Lambrights about Katie.”

  “She is Anna’s sister,” he whispered. Like me, Grandfather Zook knew immediately the ramification Katie’s death could have on the Troyer family, especially thirteen-year-old Ruth.

  Tears threatened at the corner of my eyes. “I don’t know how to tell Ruth.”

  Grandfather Zook picked up the chisel again. “If Timothy and the lady police officer are going over to the Lambright farm to tell the family, then Ruth already knows. She is there visiting Anna.”

  I wrapped my arms around my body against the cold. Poor Ruth.

  Chapter Four

  Grandfather Zook struggled to his feet. “Let’s go inside. It’s too cold out here for my old bones, and a hot meal will do us both some good.”

  I took his arm and helped him inch along the beaten-down, snowy path to the Troyer home. Knowing that I didn’t have the responsibility of telling Ruth about the death of her best friend’s sister didn’t make me feel any better. If anything, it made me feel worse, realizing that Ruth would be there to see the devastating impact such a message would have on the Lambright family.

  I helped Grandfather Zook over the threshold and into the house. He grunted. “It’s been a bad winter. I’ll be happy when all of this snow and ice melts. It will be much easier to move around then.”

  I kicked the snow from my boots just outside the back door, then left them in the mudroom and followed Grandfather Zook into Mrs. Troyer’s warm kitchen, inhaling the sweet scent of caramel corn. Fresh caramel-coated corn cooled on waxed paper next to a stack of red and green tins that sat on the kitchen counter. When the popcorn cooled, Mrs. Troyer and her daughters will pack it into tins to give as Christmas gifts to friends and family. The Amish exchanged gifts just like the English, but the gifts were simpler and homemade. I resisted the urge to snatch a piece of the hot corn from the waxed paper. I’d done that when Mrs. Troyer made her first batch earlier in the week and burned my fingertips.

  “Where’s Timothy?” Mrs. Troyer asked.

  Grandfather Zook sat in the paddle-backed chair at the far end of the table. His daughter placed a stoneware mug of hot coffee in front of him.

  Before I could answer, Mr. Troyer stepped into the kitchen from the living room. “Chloe, why did Timothy leave in a police car?”

  I bit my lip.

  Mrs. Troyer dropped the tea towel from her hands. “What has happened? Is Timothy in trouble?”

  Timothy had been in trouble with the law right after he left the Amish, before he found his way again in the Mennonite church in Appleseed Creek. I picked up the towel and handed it to her. “Timothy’s not in trouble.”

  “But something has happened.” Mr. Troyer sat down at the head of the long kitchen table. Backless pine benches, which could seat four adults, sat on either side of the matching table.

  I nodded. “Yes.” I took a seat myself on one of the benches, relieved that Thomas and the youngest Troyer, four-year-old Naomi, were not in the room as I told them about Katie’s death.

  Mrs. Troyer lowered herself onto the bench next to me. “W
hat happened? Had she lost her way?”

  I straightened a fork that lay in front of me on the table. “We don’t know, but Chief Rose believes an icicle knocked her on the head.”

  Mr. Troyer’s dark eyebrows knit together like a piece of shaggy wool. “An icicle?”

  “There are giant ones hanging from the eaves of the barn. One was missing right above where we found Katie,” I said.

  “Icicles are dangerous. If they are big enough, they can knock a man out,” Grandfather Zook said. “What a terrible shame. She was such a sweet girl.”

  Mrs. Troyer reached into her black apron pocket and removed an embroidered handkerchief. “What would Katie Lambright be doing there all alone?”

  I shook my head. They assumed she was alone when she died, but I wasn’t convinced of that yet.

  Mrs. Troyer held the handkerchief to her chest. “The police think Timothy knows something about what happened to Katie? Is that why they took him away?”

  I placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “No. Chief Rose asked Timothy to go with her to notify the family. She thought it would be easier with someone they knew there.”

  Mr. Troyer’s face was like stone. “That is gut of my son to share the burden. The Lambright family needs the support of our community.”

  “Ruth is there now,” the mother of five said. “Simon, you should go and fetch her.”

  He shook his head. “Timothy will be home soon. He will know to bring Ruth with him. The family needs their privacy today.”

  “You’re right.” Mrs. Troyer jumped up. “I’ll make them a care basket. Ruth and I can take it over tomorrow.” She covered her mouth, then lowered her hand. “On Christmas Eve.”

  The back door opened and Naomi and Becky’s laughter floated into the kitchen from the mudroom. It was nice to hear Becky laughing with her youngest sister. Before Bishop Hooley said that it was allowable for the Troyers to interact with their English children, tension buzzed through the house any time Timothy, Becky, or even I entered the property. It had been difficult for Mr. Troyer to reconcile himself with obeying his church and loving his children who chose a different way of life.

  Although twenty-seven now, Timothy had left the church in his late teens, and as far as I could tell, his relationship with his family had hardly changed. When Becky left during this past summer, everything was different. I could not help believing it was because she was a daughter—not a son. The auto-buggy collision she was in shortly after she left home had only made matters worse. The district’s beloved Bishop Glick was killed, and even though the accident wasn’t her fault, Becky was sentenced to probation and community service—both of which would not end until after the first of next year.

  Becky held short boughs from an evergreen tree, and Naomi carried a bouquet of Christmas holly cut from the bush in their mother’s garden. Even without a Christmas tree and twinkle lights, the Amish home was prepared for the holiday.

  Finding us all in the kitchen, Becky pulled up short. “What has happened?”

  I was startled by how much she had changed since meeting her months ago on my first day in Appleseed Creek. The look of innocence had faded from her eyes, and a new appearance of maturity and understanding took its place. She was still the sweet, beautiful girl I first met, but an expression of sadness told that she knew all was not right with the world and that bad things happened to good people—even her family.

  Mrs. Troyer helped her youngest daughter out of her wool coat and mittens. “Naomi, go upstairs and choose a basket from the closet. We are making a Christmas gift for the Lambrights.”

  “Any basket?” the four-year-old asked in English. When I first met Naomi, she knew few English words, but she had learned so much in a short time. Since I don’t speak Pennsylvania Dutch, the Troyers spoke in English whenever I visited.

  Her mother smiled. “Ya, you pick.”

  She ran from the room.

  Becky wore a guarded expression as she placed the evergreen boughs into a bushel basket by the threshold to the living room. “Why are you making a basket for the Lambrights?”

  “Timothy and Chloe found Katie by an old barn.” Mr. Troyer paused. “She was dead.”

  Becky’s mouth fell open. “Dead? How can that be?”

  I told her Chief Rose’s theory about the icicle, and as I did, the sweet smell of caramel emanating from the kitchen made me nauseous.

  Becky’s eyes shined with unshed tears. “What was she doing there?”

  A very good question.

  Mr. Troyer folded his arm across him chest. “There is no point asking why now.”

  “But—”

  Mrs. Troyer stood. “Becky, help me choose items for the basket. Should we send some of my blackberry jam?”

  “Mamm, we can do that later. I want to know what happened.”

  Mr. Troyer’s brow was hooded, but Grandfather Zook spoke up. “You can’t have all the answers now. The best way you can help the Lambright family is to make a basket that shows them we care and stand by them during this time.”

  If either of her parents had said the same thing, Becky would have argued with them, but since the advice came from her grandfather, she sprang into action and started to open pantry doors, seeking homemade treats to tuck into the Lambright care basket.

  Mr. Troyer tapped his fork on the table. “Let’s eat supper first. Even at a time like this, I must return to the barn and tend the cows.”

  Mrs. Troyer placed her jar of blackberry jam back on its shelf. “Ya, your daed is right. We must continue the work Gott has given us. Help me put together that last of the sandwiches. We will finish the basket after supper.” She gave a shuddered sigh.

  A few minutes later Naomi and Thomas entered the room and sat on either side of me on the pine bench as their mother placed the platter of meatloaf sandwiches in the middle of the table. A tiny triangle of construction paper dangled from Thomas’s shirt. I plucked it off. “What’s this from?”

  He smiled brightly and leaned close. “Naomi and I are making a Christmas garland of paper for the railing. Teacher had us make one for the schoolhouse, and Maam said I could teach Naomi how to make it. By the time she starts school, she will be the very best at cutting construction paper.”

  “You’re a good big brother.”

  He shrugged and reached for a sandwich, but his mother swatted his hand. “Wait until Daed blesses the food.”

  The child retracted his hand with a frown.

  Mr. Troyer bowed his head and gave the blessing. “. . . And may you comfort Katie Lambright’s family during this difficult time. Amen.”

  Grandfather Zook murmured, “Amen,” and selected a sandwich from the platter.

  Thomas scowled. “You took the biggest one.”

  Grandfather winked. “I’m old. When you are as old as me you can have the biggest one.”

  Thomas placed two sandwiches on his plate.

  “Thomas Troyer,” his mother said, “You will never be able to eat all of that.”

  He scrunched up his face. “I will. I’m growing big and strong like Timothy.”

  “Where is Timothy?” Naomi whispered.

  I took one of Thomas’s sandwiches and moved it to my plate. “He will be here—”

  The front door of the Troyer’s farmhouse slammed shut, the sound of it echoing through the wall followed by the staccato sound of footsteps running upstairs. The footsteps stopped and another door slammed.

  Naomi leaned close to me. “Is Ruth mad?”

  I wrapped my arm around her. “I don’t think she is mad.”

  Timothy entered the kitchen, his face ashen and drawn. “Have a seat, my grandson.” Grandfather Zook patted the bench closest to him.

  Timothy fell into the seat without greeting anyone. He appeared so stricken by his visit to the Lambright farm I wanted to take his hand, but I knew that the family frowned on this. They knew that Timothy was “courting” me, but the Amish did not approve of public displays of affection.

 
; Mr. Troyer pushed away his plate. “Son, tell us what has happened.”

  Mrs. Troyer placed a kettle onto the stovetop. “Thomas, go upstairs and play with Naomi.”

  The boy frowned. “But I haven’t eaten yet, and I’m starving.”

  Thomas’s father glowered at his youngest son. “Thomas, your mamm asked you to go upstairs.”

  Mrs. Troyer nodded to the young boy. “You and Naomi can take your suppers upstairs and eat in your room.”

  Thomas’s eyes went wide. “We can eat upstairs?”

  Naomi’s blue eyes were identical to her brother’s and grew just as wide.

  “Ya,” their mother said. “This one time. Now, go before I change my mind.”

  The children scrambled off the bench and grabbed their plates and glasses of fresh milk before scurrying from the room.

  Mrs. Troyer set a white mug of coffee in front of her oldest son. “Timothy, please tell us what happened.”

  Timothy looked to me.

  “I’ve told them about . . .” I paused. “Our discovery.”

  He nodded. “Telling the Lambrights was as hard as I thought it would be. They didn’t believe us at first, and Jeb Lambright refused to answer any of the police chief’s questions about Katie. Anna crumbled to the floor like her legs were broken sticks. Ruth helped her to her bedroom before we left. She had wanted to stay with Anna, but Jeb told me to take her home.”

  The handkerchief was in Mrs. Troyer’s hands again. “And Sally? How is she?”

  Timothy made a face.

  “Do they need help with the farm?” Grandfather Zook asked.

  Mr. Troyer set his coffee mug on the pine table. “I’m sure the sons will come in and help with the farm while the family deals with this tragedy.”

  Timothy’s brow crinkled. “I don’t know. I got the impression that Jeb didn’t care much for his two stepsons.”

  Becky’s hands shook. “We’re making a gift basket for them.”

  Timothy grimaced. “Don’t be surprised if they don’t accept it.”

  His sister’s forehead bunched. “Why wouldn’t they?”

  Timothy shook his head, refusing to say anything more about it. He rubbed his naked chin, as if searching for the Amish beard that would be there if he had been baptized into the church and married a nice Amish girl. “Deacon Sutter showed up just as we left.”