The Confession

by Beverly Lewis

  No dark green window blinds, cold hardwood floors, or mountains of Amish quilts. Also noticeably absent was any sign of a cedar chest, where a single woman could store hand-stitched items, awaiting her wedding day.

  Katherine brushed aside the annoying thought. She’d gone and run out on her own wedding, leaving a disgusted widower-groom behind. A man who’d turned out to be the sternest bishop Hickory Hollow had ever known—Bishop John Beiler, the imposer of dieMeinding—the shunning.

  Ach! The very thought of it stung her to the core. But she was Katherine now. Body, soul, and spirit.

  She stared at the foot of the bed where a hope chest might’ve been. ’Twasn’t so important to have such a thing in a room for rent. Still, she couldn’t help recalling the many lovely items she’d made during the years in preparation for her wedded future. All of it, every last hand-sewn piece, she’d packed away in the Lapps’ attic. Just thinking of it, she had to laugh—a choked sound—for it was the dusty attic of her childhood home, where everything had begun to crumble and change.

  Crossing the room, she went to sit in the upholstered chair near a beautifully draped window. She lifted her tired feet to the hassock and let out a weary sigh. Above her, the ceiling light shone brightly, and she decided as she relaxed that this room was her haven against the world. The world of her People who had pierced her very soul.

  Shunned … for all time…. Once again, she was stricken with the paralyzing thought.

  Purposely, she stared at the gold light switch across the room, and Cousin Lydia’s words flickered through her mind. Ask our heavenly Father for guidance, the Mennonite woman had said.

  But Katie—Katherine—had no idea how to do such a thing. Her strict Amish roots went too deep in her, maybe. Still, she mustn’t accept that as a reason not to pray Cousin Lydia’s way. Besides, she wanted to break all ties with her past, so praying as if you were talking to God … now, that would be one way to go about it.

  She got up and knelt beside the chair. “Dear Father in heaven, there’s a Mennonite downstairs who says I should talk to thee … er, you, about findin’ my real mother. I do hope thou, uh, you won’t be minding too much… .”

  She stopped. Such a strange way to speak to the Almighty. She resorted to beseeching Him in German, as she was accustomed. “OHerr Gott, himmlischer Vater,” she began.

  It was difficult—no, downright bossy—to ask anything personal of the Lord God, heavenly Father, especially since she was in bald-faced disobedience to His commandments. So she didn’t make a request at all but recited a prayer from Christenpflicht, the standard Amish prayer book, instead of a spontaneous one.

  After the prayer was done, she felt as though she’d broken faith with the new person she was attempting to become—Katherine Mayfield.

  Before getting off her knees, she spied the beloved guitar lying under the double bed. Retrieving it, she sat on the hassock, exhilaration replacing her sadness as she strummed the once-forbidden strings.

  The lively songs she sang were old ones, some she’d made up as a little child. Another was a slower tune, one she and her first love, Daniel Fisher—who’d drowned in a sailing accident five years before—had written together during the last week of his life.

  Dan, she truly hoped, would be pleased up there in Glory if he knew what her plans were for tomorrow. He was a spirited fella, Daniel Fisher. Never gave up trying till he got what he wanted. Especially when it came to religion and the Bible.

  She remembered him being mighty stubborn for a young Amishman— liked to ramrod his ideas through to those who didn’t see eye to eye with him.

  Katherine sang on.

  Don’t prejudge the dead, she could hear the conscientious voice of Rebecca Lapp, her Amish mamma. Herr Gott was the final Judge when all was said and all was done. The Almighty One was sovereign. Come Judgment Day, He would decide what would become of her dear Beau’s eternal soul.

  Louder she sang, defying the thought of Daniel ever being anywhere but in Blessed Paradise. Never before and never again had someone understood or loved her more. And tomorrow, if Dan was looking down on her, she’d make him grin … chuckle, maybe.

  She planned on using Cousin Lydia’s telephone to dial up that long-distance operator in Canandaigua. She would not give up till she got hold of a woman named Laura Mayfield-Bennett. Laura, who would understand perfectly. Laura, who would recite the day of her daughter’s birth and say at last, “Welcome home, Katherine.”

  What a fine, wonderful-good day that would be.

  Chapter Three

  Katherine waited for the house to clear out a bit before heading to the hall phone the next morning. She’d written and rewritten the directory assistance number for long distance on a scratch pad from the kitchen, anticipating the moment.

  But when she walked up the stairs and approached the telephone, she could only stare at it. There were so many things to be thinking about. If she picked up that phone …

  Hmm. It just might be best not to know anything about her natural mother, really. Might be best to leave well enough alone.

  Her dear friend Mary Stoltzfus would say, “Stick to doin’ the right thing, Katie.” Well, if she was to do the right thing, would she be standing here in this Mennonite house this very minute?

  She shrugged off the crippling thought. Her heart, fractured and feeble, insisted on knowing the truth.

  But when she got up the courage to dial the number, the electronic answering service came on the line. Katherine waited, insisting on speaking with a real “live” operator.

  “What city?” the woman asked.

  “Canandaigua.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Katherine waited, her breath coming in shallow spurts.

  “What listing?” was the reply.

  “I need a number for someone with the last name of Bennett.”

  “Spell it, please.”

  “B-e-n-n-e-t-t.”

  “Thank you, one moment.” The operator’s voice sounded stiff, and Katherine wondered if that was how all of them talked. But she wasn’t about to give up. She wouldn’t let one uppity operator discourage her.

  “There are fifteen Bennetts listed. Is there a first name?” the operator asked.

  “Please try Laura Mayfield-Bennett. It might be under that name.”

  Almost instantly, the woman said, “I’m sorry, there’s no such listing.”

  “Oh …”

  “Would you like to try another?” came the wooden voice.

  “No, thank you, but could you give me the phone numbers for those fifteen Bennetts?”

  “I am authorized to give only one listing per call.”

  Only one? Katherine’s heart sank. “But it’s an emergency. Someone’s dying … someone … uh, it’s my real mother, she’s dying … and I hafta find her.”

  “I’m very sorry, miss. You may continue to call back, however, if you wish to try all the numbers for that listing.”

  Katherine resigned herself to the way things must be done. After all, hadn’t she always followed the most rigid rules in dress, in word, and in deed since toddlerhood? Why not go along with one more?

  The operator gave her the first name—Arthur O. Bennett—and the number.

  “Thank you,” Katherine said and hung up.

  Then, fingers trembling, she began to dial, remembering to include the area code.

  Such a life these moderns have, she thought. On the other hand, she was still getting used to the simplest of conveniences.

  Last evening, before retiring, she’d discussed her plans with Lydia and Peter, asking permission to use their telephone again. They had agreed to let her reimburse them for the long-distance calls when the monthly bill arrived. It would take quite a bit of her money, but Katherine thought it cheaper than hiring a private detective. Letting her call long distance like this was one of the nicest things anyone had done for her lately.

  She heard the phone on the other end ringing in her ear. Once �
� twice … a third ring.

  Then—“Hello?” a strange voice said.

  “Ah … I … could I speak to Laura Mayfield-Bennett, please?” Her knees were shaking along with her voice.

  “Well, I think you may have the wrong number,” the voice replied.

  “Oh, sorry.” Quickly, she hung up.

  Not to be discouraged, Katherine picked up a pencil and drew a single neat line through the name. “I’ll just try the next one,” she said, as though saying the words out loud might give her a bit more confidence.

  But she hesitated, staring at the telephone. She thought of Cousin Lydia’s kind suggestion of asking the Lord for guidance. Maybe she oughta get up the nerve to do it. Or ask Cousin Peter before she tried.

  When she finally redialed the Canandaigua operator, someone new was on the line, and she had to go through the whole rigmarole again.

  This time the name given was a Clifford M. Bennett. She dialed the new number. The phone rang and rang—ten times at least—before she halted it by hanging up. So she made a tiny question mark beside that name and repeated the process.

  Next … Dylan D. Bennett.

  Quickly, she cleared her throat and took a deep breath, trying to look on the bright side of things. Using the phone like this was a very good thing for her to be doing, she thought. Good practice.

  But she wasn’t prepared to have someone answer, not immediately on the first ring. “The Bennett estate,” a confident female voice answered. “How may I direct your call?”

  Suddenly, Katherine felt ill at ease. Her mouth went dry, and she was caught completely off guard, hearing a woman answer the phone this way. She almost wondered if she’d gotten hold of her natural mother by sheer luck!

  “Is Laura Mayfield-Bennett at home, please?” she managed.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bennett is not available at the moment. May I help you?”

  Katherine felt her heart racing and sat down quickly. Oh my, nowwhat? she wondered. This woman talking to her on the other end of the line … this woman holding the telephone receiver up there in New York somewhere … she was saying, in so many words, that Laura Mayfield-Bennett—her mother, her real mother—lived there.

  The Bennett estate… .

  “Miss? Is there someone else you wish to speak to?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Katherine said, rallying. “Yes, there sure is. Could I … I mean, would it be all right if I talked to … her husband?” She glanced at the name and number on her scratch pad. “Mr. Dylan Bennett?”

  “Let me see if he’s available.” A short pause, then—“May I ask who’s calling?”

  “Oh … just tell him that Katherine Mayfield, his wife’s daughter, is on the line. And … thank you. I thank you very much, I really do!”

  The next voice she heard was mighty professional. The way it sounded took her aback—near frightened the wits out of her. And when she began to explain who she was and why she’d called, she forgot all her well-rehearsed “English” speech, and some of the words tumbled out in Dutch.

  “I beg your pardon?” the man said. “Who did you say you were?”

  “I’m Katherine, jah, Katherine Mayfield. I ain’t for certain, but I think you might be married to my mam.”

  There was silence. Long and nerve-jangling.

  “Hullo?” she said. “Could ya please tell her I called—uh, tell Laura, that is? It’s ever so important.”

  “I’m sorry, miss. I do believe you must have the wrong number.” The voice sounded oh so much different now. Cold and awful stiff. It reminded her of Bishop John’s voice when last he’d spoken to her, informing her of the consequences of the shunning.

  “But I don’t have the wrong number … do I? I mean, someone just told me—someone right before you got on the line—said that Laura, your wife, wasn’t taking calls. Does that mean she’s getting worse … because if she is, I wouldn’t wanna disturb her. Not for anything.”

  “Excuse me … was someone here expecting your call?” he demanded.

  “Ach, I wouldn’t be surprised. Laura … uh, my mother has been looking for me. Came to Hickory Hollow just last month, as a matter of fact.”

  “I see” came the terse reply. “Is there a number where she may reach you?”

  “Oh yes … yes, there is.” Katherine studied the Millers’ number printed out just above her on the telephone. Because she had not memorized it, she recited slowly.

  That done, she instructed him to have Laura ask for either Katherine or … Katie Lapp when she called back. “Because the people I’m staying with sometimes forget my new name, and I’d really hate to miss—”

  “Katherine … or … Miss Katie Lapp,” the man interrupted, repeating the names slowly as if writing down the information. “Very well, I’ll see that my wife gets your message.”

  “Thank you”—and here she glanced at her list—“thank you, Mr. Dylan Bennett.”

  “Good-bye,” he said curtly and hung up.

  “God be with you,” she whispered, still holding the phone, warm in her grip.

  What kind of man had her real mother gotten herself hitched up with?

  Katherine shivered, recalling Dylan Bennett’s voice in her ear. Such a stern-sounding man, she thought. Panic seized her, and so as to disconnect herself completely from him, she promptly hung up the phone.

  Rebecca Lapp had asked the Lord God all too often to bring her Katie back to her. But she knew without a shadow of a doubt it would have to be the heavenly Father’s own doing—His and His alone. And there’d have to be a startling change in the wayward girl for her to repent on bended knee.

  Ach! Such a willful soul her Katie had become. But neither her daughter’s past nor her present had kept Rebecca from dropping to her knees many a time throughout the day—always, though, when Samuel and the boys were out milking or away from the house.

  She understood full well that Katie’s return to Hickory Hollow would have to be the providence of God, because just last week, Samuel had made a fiery announcement. He’d said no one in the Lapp household must ever utter Katie’s name. “We will not be speaking ofher again—not ever again!”

  His decree had come out of personal grief, she understood, and, jah, righteous indignation. Rebecca did not feel unkindly toward her husband for it, yet his words hadn’t discouraged her from thinking of Katie. Which she caught herself doing ever so often these days. My, oh my, had it been nearly one week now already … since Katie had gone to stay at Lydia Miller’s house?

  Rebecca refolded the kitchen towel and went to sit in the front room. Katie was on her mind a lot, it seemed. And she missed her. Missed her like a cripple might pine for an amputated arm or leg.

  Himmel, life had changed so terrible much, she thought. Reaching for her hand sewing, Rebecca wondered if she oughtn’t to stop by and visit her Mennonite cousin. A quick visit wouldn’t hurt none, especially this close to Christmas. And maybe, just maybe, she’d catch a glimpse of her dear girl at the same time. That is, if Katie hadn’t already up and gone to New York.

  Rebecca teetered a bit on her hickory rocker before resuming the embroidery work. No, she couldn’t do it. Samuel—the bishop, too— would disapprove. Besides, it might be too soon to visit thataway. She must wait out die Meinding, hoping and praying that the harshness of the shunning might bring Katie back to the church and to God.

  Yet if the truth be known, she herself was suffering from a wicked sin—jealousy. And not just a twinge of it, neither. Ach, she’d had a greislich time of it, trying ever so hard to turn her thoughts away from Katie and her stubborn desire to search for the “English” woman named Laura Mayfield-Bennett. Such a fancy, modern lady she must be.

  Rebecca’s mind raced near out of control at the possibility of her precious girl taking up with the likes of a worldly woman. Sometimes she thought her mind might be slipping, and she tried desperately to hide her ongoing obsession with Katie’s satin baby gown.

  But if she could just touch it, hold it and s
troke its gentle folds, then and only then could the past catch up with the present and things go on as always—before Katie got herself shunned and left the Amish community.

  Here lately, the haunting cries of an infant had caused her to get up and rush down the hall to Katie’s old room. Some nights she sat beside the empty bed long into the wee hours, holding the baby dress next to her bosom. She’d even quit praying in German and told the Lord God heavenly Father that she wished He’d never created her. That she herself had never been born.

  Jah, it might’ve been better thataway….

  Immediately following breakfast, Theodore hurried to the limo garage behind the estate. He opened the door and, much to his displeasure, discovered the black car was gone, apparently in use. This agitated him considerably, and he walked back and forth on the snowpacked walk, thinking what to do.

  Mrs. Bennett was counting on him. He must not let the mistress down, especially not out of pure carelessness—putting that important document in a locked glove compartment. He should have retrieved it at the earliest opportunity and put it elsewhere for safekeeping, as he’d promised.

  Back inside, he hung his overcoat and hat in the large utility room near the kitchen. Several housegirls were cleaning counters and sweeping the floor as he came scuffling inside, still wearing his boots.

  Garrett Smith, his nephew and head steward, stood in the pantry doorway, consulting in hushed tones with Fulton Taylor, the impeccable butler—Rosie’s husband.

  But it was Selig, the assistant cook, brewing a fresh pot of coffee, who caught Theodore’s attention. “Looks like you could be usin’ a strong cup of coffee, my man. Here, try this. It’s plenty hot—and black.”

  Theodore accepted the steaming mug gratefully and seated himself next to the bay window. Such a thoughtless deed I’ve done, he fumed, kicking himself mentally. What if the junior chauffeur needed something from the glove compartment? Why hadn’t he taken the unsealed envelope along with him to his room last night?