Plain Death

by Flower, Amanda

  “You ran into a horse trailer?” He asked the same question three times. Apparently the insurance agent could not wrap his mind around an auto and buggy collision.

  A half hour later, I hung up with no firm answers to my questions, then debated calling my father for help. Chances were he wouldn’t answer the phone, and I’d end up more upset than I already was. Usually I would turn to Mr. and Mrs. Green for advice, but since they were in Italy, there was no point in worrying them or Tanisha until I had all the facts.

  There was a knock on my front door. Gig jumped straight up in the air and fled up the stairs, his claws scratching the wooden steps. Would my landlord notice? Since he rented me a house without a working front door, we’d call it a draw.

  Through the peephole I saw a young Amish girl, so I opened the door. “Hi.” The girl wore a navy dress with pleated skirt, and a full-body black apron. Dirt marred the bottom of her skirt. Over her white-blonde hair she wore a black bonnet, its ribbons untied. I recognized her as the girl from Becky’s painting.

  She blinked at me with huge blue eyes the same color as her siblings’.

  “Are you Ruth?” I asked.

  She dropped her gaze to her black sneakers. “Is my sister here?”

  I stalled. “You’re looking for Becky?” Does she know about the accident? “I’m Chloe,” I said. “Becky’s friend.”

  “I know. Timothy told Daed about you. He said you were a good Englisch girl and Becky lived with you. Daed was upset. He wants Becky to come home. We all do. We miss her.”

  My cheeks warmed. A good English girl? What does that mean? I stopped myself from asking Becky what else her brother had said.

  “I want to see my sister.” She stamped her foot.

  “She’s not here.”

  Ruth peered up at me, fighting tears. “Because she is in jail?”

  I swallowed, avoiding her questions. “How did you know to come here? Did Timothy tell you where Becky lived?”

  “Timothy wouldn’t tell me, but I know he told Mamm and Daed. Becky sent me a letter from this address, and I found it on my own.” She put her hands on her hips. “Now, where is my sister?”

  “She’s with Timothy. Do you want to come inside?”

  “No, I want to get my sister and go home.” She pointed at her brother’s blue truck. “Isn’t Timothy here?”

  I shook my head. The door’s hinges creaked as I pushed against it.

  “Is Becky in jail?” She tugged at her bonnet’s black ribbon.

  I glanced up and down the street. No buggy. No Amish in sight. No one at all. “Are you here alone?”

  “Our Englisch driver drove me in from the farm to take eggs to Amish Bread Bakery in town. That nosy Esther Yoder told me about the buggy accident. I didn’t believe her at first, but when her mother came out and didn’t say hello to me, I knew something was wrong.” Her eyes welled up with tears. “Is it true? Is Bishop Glick dead?” She took a shaky breath. “Did Becky kill him?”

  I steeled myself. “There was an accident, and the bishop was killed.”

  Ruth’s small white hand flew to her mouth. “Is Becky safe?”

  I nodded. “She has a broken arm and a few cuts and bruises. She was lucky.”

  “Daed say there is no such thing as luck, just providence.” She put the end of her ribbon in her mouth and bit on it. “Where’s my sister? I want to see her.”

  “As I said, she’s with Timothy.”

  “Where are they? Are they coming here?” The wet end of the ribbon clung to her cheek, and she flicked it away with her hand.

  “I don’t know.” I hadn’t asked Timothy where he would take his sister after the police station—if he was allowed to leave with her. Part of me had expected them to come back here, but why would they? I let out a sigh. “I left them at the sheriff’s department in Mount Vernon.”

  “I want to go there.”

  “That’s not a good idea. Your parents wouldn’t like it.” I peered over her shoulder again. “Is your driver waiting for you at the bakery?”

  “He’s not.” She shook her head. “I told him I had another ride home.”

  I looked at her, brow furrowed. “And do you?”

  “No.” Her face flushed. “I know I shouldn’t lie, but he wouldn’t leave unless I told him that. He would never bring me here. He knew Daed would be angry.”

  “I don’t know if Becky’s coming here, and if she does how long it will be. Your parents will be worried.” I stepped back into the house. “Let me grab the truck keys. I’ll take you home.”

  This time she didn’t argue.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ruth directed me onto an unnamed gravel road. The old truck jostled over every pebble, shaking loose my vertebrae. When was the last time Timothy had the shocks checked? How much worse the ride must feel in an Amish buggy. Are the buggies’ ceilings padded? For that matter, are the seats?

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ruth’s hands folded neatly in her lap. Her knuckles were milk white, the black ribbon back in her mouth.

  “Do you start school soon?” I asked.

  The ribbon fell out of her mouth. “What?”

  “School? Are you starting soon? I work at the college, and we’re getting ready for a new school year there. It starts in a few weeks.”

  “In her letter, Becky told me you worked at the college. She said you are in charge of the computers.”

  I smiled. “Among other things, but yes, that’s basically my job.”

  “I used a computer once,” she whispered, as if confessing.

  “Where?”

  “At the library. My friend Alex took me there. Alex is a girl,” she added quickly. “Her father is a dairy farmer too. Their farm is a few miles from ours. She doesn’t have any brothers or sisters.”

  I suppressed a smile at her serious tone.

  “It’s my last year,” Ruth said.

  “Your last year of school?” I knew the Amish didn’t go to high school, but Ruth looked to be no more than eleven.

  Ruth wiggled in her seat. “I’m almost thirteen,” she said as if she read my mind. “About the computer, we didn’t do anything really. I was just looking at Alex’s pictures from her family’s vacation. They went to the Grand Canyon. Have you ever been there?”

  “I have.” As a teen, I drove across the country with the Greens on their family vacation, stopping at the St. Louis Arch, the Rocky Mountains, the Grand Canyon, and California. We’d hoped Sabrina and my father would meet us in San Diego when we arrived, but according to Sabrina, “It was a bad time.”

  “Is my sister going to prison?”

  As she asked the question, a white utility truck barreled around the curve in front of me. I pulled to the side to let the driver pass, and as I did, Timothy’s truck rolled through a crater-sized pothole. “Uff,” I said, wincing from the impact. Ruth’s bonnet bounced off of the truck’s ceiling.

  “Becky will be fine,” I assured her. In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of the words MATHEWS REAL ESTATE DEVELOPMENT stamped on the back door of the speeding truck.

  A tear rolled down Ruth’s cheek, her voice a whisper. “She should never have left me.”

  “Ruth, Becky did—”

  “There’s the farm.” Gruffly, she brushed away the tear and turned to her window.

  The farmhouse sat on the property about a quarter mile from the asphalt road. A screened-in porch dominated the front of the house, and chest-high teddy bear sunflowers grew in a cheerful line. Beyond the house stood several wooden outbuildings and a large barn. All the whitewashed wood buildings sat on a tan brick foundation. Black and white dairy cows congregated in the fenced area around the barn. North of the barn, soybeans grew low to the ground. Plain clothes hung from a double clothesline in the swelter
ing afternoon heat. There was no breeze.

  “It’s suppertime,” Ruth said. “Daed will be home.”

  I glanced at her. Is that a bad thing?

  As the truck bounced along the gravel driveway, the screen door to the house snapped open and two tow-headed Amish children ran toward the truck. The little boy squealed. “Timothy!”

  A little girl of about three years old cheered. She wore a light purple dress and a white apron. Her hair was tied back in a bun but was otherwise uncovered. She held a faceless doll by the leg, its clothes similar: a dark blue plain dress, black apron and bonnet.

  Ruth’s face broke into a grin. “That is my bruder, Thomas, and, schweschder, Naomi.”

  I shifted the truck into park. Thomas and Naomi ran full tilt for the driver’s side door. They pulled up short when they saw my face sticking out of the window, their smiles dissolving as if I stole the last piece of apple cake. “It’s okay,” I assured them.

  Ruth hopped out of the car and said something to her siblings in Pennsylvania Dutch. Their faces brightened, but they observed me with curiosity. I slipped out of the truck, then held out my hand. “I’m Chloe.”

  Thomas, who was no more than seven, squeezed my fingers. Naomi watched her brother closely and did the same thing.

  Thomas asked Ruth something in their language, but I heard Becky’s name.

  Ruth shook her head.

  The screen door swung open again, and an Amish man stepped outside, his blond hair and beard streaked with gray. Behind him a much younger woman followed. She twisted the edge of her black apron in her hands.

  “Ruth.” The man’s voice cracked with anger.

  Ruth ran to her father. He spoke to her, making no attempt to lower his voice. He knew I didn’t understand a word. He glared in my direction, said something else to her, then walked toward me. My shoulders tensed.

  “I’m Rebecca’s father.” He spoke in English, with no trace of an accent.

  “It’s nice to meet you . . .” What do I call him? Mr. Troyer? Brother Troyer? How do Amish greet each other? I decided to avoid saying his name at all.

  “You’re the Englisch girl. Rebecca’s friend?”

  I nodded.

  The woman inched across the lawn. She gripped the end of her apron in her hands. “Do you know where my children, Becky and Timothy, are? Is it true what Deacon Sutter says? Is Bishop Glick dead?”

  Becky’s father’s eyes flicked to his wife. “Martha.” He added something in Pennsylvania Dutch.

  I swallowed. “I’m so sorry. It’s true.”

  Mrs. Troyer gasped, and Naomi ran to her mother. She buried her face in her mother’s apron, crushing the doll to her as if it too needed comforting.

  A white pickup’s tires crunched on the gravel drive, then shuttered to a stop. The passenger door opened, and Timothy climbed out, followed by Becky cradling her arm in its hot pink cast. The driver waved and backed down the driveway.

  The woman’s eyes fixed on her eldest daughter’s broken arm. “My boppli.”

  Thomas ran to them. “Timothy!”

  Naomi squealed and raced after him, too, her tears forgotten. The doll thumped against her leg as she sprinted. Timothy knelt and grabbed a child in each arm, hugging them until the youngest Troyers shrieked.

  Thomas and Naomi pounced on Becky next, and her drawn face broke into the tiniest of smiles. Ruth joined her siblings and grabbed her older sister around the waist. “Becky, are you home for gut?”

  Becky’s tiny smile disappeared.

  “Ruth, you’re squishing me.” Thomas had become caught between the sisters’ hug.

  Ruth let go long enough to let Thomas and Naomi slip away. Mr. Troyer spoke in their language.

  Timothy strode over to him. “I’m sorry, Daed. Yes, it’s true.”

  Mrs. Troyer pulled a white handkerchief from her apron pocket. “She’s hurt.”

  “The doctor said it was a clean break.” Becky inched closer to her mother, dragging Ruth, who didn’t look like she planned to let go any time soon, with her. “I will be fine in a few weeks.”

  Mr. Troyer examined Becky’s arm. “It is your right arm.”

  Becky nodded.

  “Your painting arm.”

  Tears gathered in the corners of Becky’s eyes.

  “Rebecca, go into the house,” Mr. Troyer said.

  Becky stepped out of her mother’s embrace and shook her head. “No.”

  Her father’s eyes doubled in size, warning her. “Rebecca.”

  Becky raised her chin. “I’m going home with Chloe.”

  Her father’s brows knitted together, and he said something I couldn’t understand.

  She replied in English. “No. I can’t stay here. It’s better for the family if I go. I need to protect you. You can tell everyone you wouldn’t let me come home. The district will be mad.” She turned to me. “Chloe, are you ready to go?”

  “Umm . . .” I looked from Becky to her family.

  Mr. Troyer spoke to Timothy, who replied in their language.

  Did Harshberger offer Pennsylvania Dutch classes? I needed one if I spent much more time with the Troyer family.

  Becky glared at them. “What happened has nothing to do with my art. It was an accident. I’m so sorry.” Her voice broke.

  Her mother rushed over and wrapped her eldest daughter in a hug. In her mother’s arms again, Becky began to sob.

  Despite all of Becky’s troubles, a twinge of jealousy nicked my heart. What I wouldn’t give for my mother to hug me like that one more time.

  Mr. Troyer’s jaw relaxed. “It is time for supper. We will eat first, then talk.”

  Becky sniffled as her mother guided her to the house. Thomas bounded after them, and I wondered if the youngest Troyer son ever walked anywhere.

  Naomi pulled on the hem of my T-shirt.

  To my surprise, Mr. Troyer waved me in, his expression resigned. “Yes, Chloe, please join us.”

  Timothy watched me, hands stuffed into his pockets and expectation in his eyes. Would it be better for me to bow out gracefully? Or accept the dinner invitation?

  My stomach growled, making the decision for me.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I followed the Troyer family inside. The kitchen looked typical with its refrigerator and oven. My forehead wrinkled. Nothing about it said “Amish” to me.

  “They are powered by propane.” Timothy smiled. “There is a propane tank behind the house.”

  “That’s okay?” I whispered.

  “For our order, yes. For other orders, no.”

  My forehead wrinkled again, but Timothy only smiled.

  I took in the rest of the kitchen, its white walls with maple crown molding around the ceiling. The kitchen was at least twice the size of the Greens’ and four times the size of the one in my rental.

  The inside of the home was spotless. Rows of home-canned pickles, jams, jellies, and peppers lined the shelves of a gorgeous wooden hutch. In front of the hutch, a long kitchen table with enough room for the entire family was set and ready for supper to be served, including places for Timothy, Becky, and me.

  An elderly man with a fluffy white beard and round wire-rimmed glasses stood in the doorway between the living room and kitchen. He held himself upright with metal braces on each arm. “About time you all came in,” he said. “I’m hungry. I even set the table for the young people to move this along. I knew they’d be coming in. No one can pass up one of my daughter’s home-cooked meals.” He rubbed his stomach.

  Naomi giggled.

  “I’m hungry, too, Grossdaddi,” Thomas declared.

  Becky’s grandfather stuck out his cheek as the children passed. Each grandchild gave him a kiss, even Timothy. I just smiled, but the man angled his cheek i
n my direction, awaiting another kiss.

  I gave him a peck on the cheek.

  He stood a little taller. “I like her.”

  Mr. Troyer said something I didn’t understand.

  “Daed,” Becky’s mother said. “I’m sorry, Chloe. My father thinks because he is old he can behave as he likes.”

  The old man settled into a padded chair at the table. “Chloe.” He let the name roll around on his tongue. “I like the name. You can call me Grandfather Zook. All the Englischers do.”

  I nodded. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Thomas and Naomi washed their hands in the sink, which looked just like the one in my home, and fought over who got to sit next to their grandfather. Timothy and his father also washed their hands while Becky, Ruth, and their mother started serving food.

  In the Green house, Tanisha’s father was the cook. If Mrs. Green was cooking, our choices were Chinese or Mediterranean takeout or pizza. Mrs. Green did an excellent job teaching both Tanisha and me how to dial a phone. That’s where our culinary training ended.

  “Can I help?” I asked, unsure of what I could do other than carry platters to the table.

  “No,” Mrs. Troyer said. “You’re our guest. Please sit.” She pointed to a spot on the wooden bench next to Naomi. The little girl scooted over so that we touched, and she grinned up at me. My heart melted a little.

  Mrs. Troyer hummed to herself as she pulled a roast out of the oven. She moved with assurance, and in her kitchen, she was transformed from the anxious woman I met a few minutes ago. She set the roast in the center of the table in front of her husband. As their mother sat down, Ruth and Becky, using only her left arm, placed the last few side dishes on the table: green beans with ham, red-skinned potatoes with parsley, sliced white bread, pickled beet slices, and roasted vegetables.

  Becky slid onto the bench on my other side, and Ruth sat by Timothy, who was directly across from me.

  “Let’s give thanks,” Mr. Troyer said. Even though I couldn’t understand a word, I felt the sentiment and received the same comfort the Greens’ blessing over the meal would always give me. In the middle of the prayer, Mr. Troyer said Becky’s name. Next to me, Naomi tensed up until her father pronounced, “Amen.”