Andrew

by Jennifer Beckstrand

  Mary returned Edna’s smile and felt some of the tension in her neck lessen. Edna didn’t seem reluctant to talk to her. “Edna, vie gehts? Is Frieda here? I’m eager to see her.”

  Edna shook her head. “She married in November, and her husband took her to Indiana. I told him he is now my least favorite son-in-law.”

  “Aaron Borntrager?”

  “Jah.”

  “I thought as much,” Mary said. “They were pen pals for almost seven years.” Frieda and Mary had shared all their secrets. Except one. Mary hadn’t dared tell Frieda about Josh. That way, Frieda could honestly have said that she knew nothing about Mary and her Englisch boyfriend and that she had no idea that Mary had been thinking of running away. Frieda must have been quite hurt when Mary had jumped the fence without breathing a word of it to anyone, not even her best friend.

  Betraying a cherished friendship was one of the things Mary regretted the most. Four months after she had left, she wrote a long letter of apology to Frieda, but she’d never heard back. Maybe the letter had never reached her. Maybe Frieda hadn’t cared to answer. Maybe Mary had burned too many bridges. Was it any wonder that everyone hated her?

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry I left without telling her.”

  Edna glanced up from the pretzels and smiled. “I am too, Mary. But there’s no use pining for the way we wish things had been.”

  Mary nodded. “We can only move forward as best we can.”

  “That’s right. Keep moving forward. Frieda understands.”

  Mary got an update on the rest of Edna’s family, left her bee-sting cake on the table, and turned to face her doom. Ach, vell, she didn’t really know if it was her doom, but she was prepared for the worst. After her icy reception at the auction last week, she expected a few daggers and knives. And neither Bitsy Weaver nor Benji Petersheim was here to rescue her.

  Still, she refused to let anyone else decide how she was going to behave. She pasted a wide smile on her lips and looked for someone, anyone, to smile back at her.

  She hobbled around the perimeter of the yard, saying hello to the many young people lounging under the trees. Some said hello back, but as soon as she tried to engage them in a conversation, they seemed to have somewhere else they needed to be, or they acted as if they were completely and fully occupied with some other conversation and couldn’t spare the time to talk to her. Mostly, she got whispers and dirty looks as she passed. Treva Nelson gave Mary a stink eye that would have done any skunk proud. Treva’s bruder Sol didn’t even lower his voice as he leaned to say something in Treva’s ear. “What does she think she’s doing here, trying to fellowship with decent folks?”

  Perry and Peter James Glick stood side by side like twin pillars, looking Mary up and down, unashamedly ogling every last inch of her body. Were they trying to make her uncomfortable or giving in to their baser desires? Mary had seen plenty of men’s baser desires in the Englisch world. She should have known it would exist in the Amish community as well. Maybe the Amish just hid their passions better—except for Perry and Peter James. They didn’t seem inclined to hide anything.

  Mary made her way clear around the yard, but no one, not one person besides Edna King, would fellowship with her. Most wouldn’t even look her in the eye. It felt as if a whole buggy full of anvils was pressing on her chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe and nearly unthinkable to smile. Why had she come back to Bienenstock? Besides Bitsy, Yost, Edna, and Benji and Alfie Petersheim, there was nothing but rejection for her here.

  Ach, vell. That wasn’t exactly true, but the thought made it easier to wallow. Mary and Hannah Yutzy had been nothing but kind at the auction, and two or three others in the gmayna were nice.

  Mary drew in a deep breath even though the pain was almost unbearable. She had come back because there had been nowhere else for her to go. She’d come back because she had hoped that maybe, just maybe, she would find a beautiful, safe place to raise her baby—a place where bonds of a family were stronger than death.

  Maybe she’d been mistaken.

  At the very least, these old friends needed to see that she would not be bullied or humiliated. She would not crawl into the hole they thought she belonged in. She would show them happiness and a glad heart, even if it killed her. Maybe she’d teach them a thing or two in the process.

  It was pure foolishness, but she half marched, half limped into the middle of the volleyball game, chose a team, and positioned herself on the front row. Alvin Miller, one of the boys she had known in school, dropped the ball mid-serve and stared at her as if she’d arrived from another planet, like the alien in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. It was a terrible movie, but Josh had insisted on showing it to her.

  Mary hunkered down and clasped her hands together in the set position, pretending that she had no idea why Alvin had dropped the ball.

  Everyone, in the game and out of it, seemed to freeze like upright popsicles. Every eye was on her, and it took supreme effort not to crumble into a million pieces. Instead, she smiled at the player next to her, clapped her hands, and called, “Let’s play,” with a sickening amount of enthusiasm.

  The girl across the net from her drew her brows together in a look of confusion. “I . . . I don’t think you’re supposed to be here,” she whispered, glancing at her teammates as if fearing she’d get in trouble for talking to the enemy.

  “You could get hurt,” someone right behind her said, still whispering, just in case anything louder would be overheard. “You’re going to have a baby.”

  Mary valiantly kept that smile ironed in place, even though her lips ached and her heart felt like a lump of coal. “I’m okay. Volleyball isn’t a hard game.”

  “We don’t want you here,” someone behind her hissed.

  “You don’t want to hurt yourself.”

  “You need to get out of our game.” That was Sol Nelson. She had made the unfortunate choice of joining his team.

  The oppressive weight of their hostility smothered her. What should she do now? If she walked away, they’d win, and she would rather move back in with Josh than let them win. If she stayed, they’d probably heap more abuse on her head. She wasn’t strong enough to bear it.

  She hadn’t seen him come, but suddenly Andrew Petersheim was by her side, gazing at her with a mixture of concern and irritation in his eyes. She didn’t even know if he was mad at her or irritated that she was messing up the game, but she thought she might faint with relief. It was nice to see a friendly face—well, sort of a friendly face. He thought she was proud and a sinner, but at least he hadn’t called her some of the nasty names being whispered behind her back.

  Andrew tried to smile but couldn’t quite form a believable one on his lips. “Mary,” he said, his eyes darting from volleyball player to volleyball player, as if he hoped none of them would notice that he was standing in the middle of the game holding a plate of cookies. “Mary, remember how you told my mamm that you would help me cut these cookies for the gathering?”

  She took a shuddering breath. He was trying to give her a way out of the game, and she would be a fool not to take it. Her knees were about to buckle under her, and if she didn’t get out soon, she’d be in a heap on the ground and die youngie would, no doubt, rejoice over her. “Ach, I forgot. Cum. I’ll help you right now.”

  She led the way, as if this had been the plan all along. Without meeting her eye, Andrew followed her to the eats table, where he dumped the plate of cookies, handed her a butter knife, and promptly walked away. Okay, he was irritated—or more likely embarrassed to be seen with her. She pressed her lips together and tried to ignore the ache in her chest. For some ridiculous reason, his walking away hurt worse than anything Sol Nelson had said to her or any harsh look Treva had shot at her.

  Andrew had popped her toe back into place. He’d brought her a drink of water and shown her the chair he’d made. He hadn’t wanted to be seen with her at the auction, but he had smiled at her and actually been willing to have a convers
ation with her. She had hoped that maybe he was different than the others, that maybe he didn’t think so badly of her. But it didn’t matter. They were all the same—resentful, unforgiving, and judgmental. And as rigid as telephone poles.

  Mary blinked back the tears and forced a pleasant, aching smile onto her face. She couldn’t blame them. She used to be one of them, and she knew how hard it was to see the world in a way different from what she’d been taught. Still, Andrew’s rejection stung like a fever blister. She’d hoped to find a friend tonight. There was nothing but heartache for her here.

  She could still feel dozens of pairs of eyes boring into the back of her head. Maybe she should cut the cookies so they wouldn’t get suspicious of Andrew. Although if she touched the cookies, for sure and certain, no one would want to eat them, even if they were Andrew’s mamm’s famous peanut butter cookies.

  It was good the cookies were soft enough to cut with a butter knife, because that was all she had, although where Andrew had gotten a butter knife on such short notice was anybody’s guess. She couldn’t stop her hands from shaking as she cut, but she was determined not to lose her smile. They couldn’t see that they had gotten to her. The knife slipped and nicked her finger. She hissed and popped the finger in her mouth. A butter knife wasn’t especially sharp, but it did have those tiny grooves like little teeth, and they had enough of an edge to draw blood.

  Great. Now she had a sore finger, a broken toe, and an aching heart. This day was getting better and better.

  She didn’t know how Andrew managed to appear from thin air like that, as if he’d learned a few tricks from a magician, but suddenly he was at her side, though he had his back to the table and his arms folded as if he just happened—not on purpose—to be loitering on her side of the table. “What did you do?” he said.

  “I thought maybe they would let me join their game,” she said, wincing at the little hitch in her voice. “I tried to force them to accept me, but no one likes to be forced. I was too proud to run away.”

  “I mean, what did you do to your finger?”

  Surely her face must be turning six shades of purple. “Ach. Nothing. Just a little cut.”

  “You’re going to bleed on my cookies.”

  “There isn’t even enough blood to speak of.”

  “Nae,” he said, sliding the knife out of her fist. “Go in the house. I’ll come help you find a Band-Aid.”

  “I’m okay.”

  He turned his head and looked at her, even though who knew what that would do to his reputation. “You’re shaking like you’ve got palsy, and I don’t think anyone’s going to volunteer to catch you if you faint.” He took all the pretzels off one of the plates, piled them on top of another plate, and handed the empty plate to her. “Here, take this into the house. Then no one will think you’re running away, especially since you can’t go very fast with that toe.”

  She wouldn’t have done his bidding for the world, except her legs were shaking violently and she’d be lucky to make it into the house with her dignity intact. She pushed the cookies in his direction and ambled around the table, across the lawn, and up the back steps into the kitchen.

  Thank Derr Herr, the house was empty. She slid the empty plate onto the counter and eased herself onto the sofa next to the door. The buplie poked her foot into Mary’s ribs, as if chastising her for even thinking about doing something so deerich, foolish, as playing volleyball. Ach, du lieva. What had she been thinking, throwing herself into the middle of a volleyball game like that? Maybe some of her teammates had genuinely been concerned for her safety. They probably hated her too, but some of them might have been concerned.

  She rested her head against the back of the sofa. No good had come of her being here. Even though she told herself she wouldn’t let her former friends and neighbors humiliate her, that’s exactly what had happened. She felt like a coward, but as soon as she stopped shaking, she was going to go back to Bitsy’s house and never show her face again.

  Maybe.

  Then again, maybe she would gird up her loins and try again. Everyone deserved a second chance to show some kindness.

  Ach, vell, maybe not Andrew Petersheim. He’d had his chances. First and second. Nope. She was finished with Andrew.

  The back door opened, and Mary craned her neck to look behind her. Ach. Maybe if she closed her eyes and pretended to be napping, he’d go away. She peeked through barely open eyes to watch him hang his hat on one of the kitchen chairs, then rummage through Edna’s cupboards. Did he know how rude that was? He pulled out a glass and filled it at the sink, then brought it to her. He gently nudged her arm, and she pretended to wake up.

  “Here,” he said. “You need to drink. You look flushed.”

  She wasn’t going to forgive him, even though he’d apparently come to check on her. “For your sake, I hope nobody saw you come in.”

  He frowned, but whether he felt guilty or worried, she couldn’t tell. He sat next to her and handed her the glass of water. He smelled of fresh, clean cedar and peppermint. And . . . maybe just the slightest hint of roses.

  “How is your toe?”

  It was nice of him to ask, even if he didn’t really care. She looked down at the thick bandage wrapped around her toe. “Black and blue, but it hurts less every day.” She didn’t realize how thirsty she was until she touched the glass to her lips. She emptied the glass and handed it back to him. “Denki. You can go now.”

  “I’m not leaving you like this. I’ve seen you when you’re hurt. We can’t risk you screaming like a passing chicken.”

  To her dismay, she felt the corners of her mouth curl upward involuntarily. She pushed them down again by sheer force of will. “I don’t want anyone to catch you in here with a sinner.”

  He lifted his chin. “You don’t have to get all huffy about it. You are a sinner. Might as well admit it.”

  “I’ve admitted it several times already.” She sighed. She was already losing patience with him, and he’d been in the house all of three minutes. “I am a sinner. Aren’t we all sinners?”

  He drew his brows together. “We are all sinners, yes, but you don’t seem to understand that’s no excuse for what you’ve done.”

  She leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. Was it worth trying to make him understand? Hadn’t she tried hard enough already? Did she even want to give Andrew another chance? “I’m not trying to make excuses for what I’ve done, Andrew. I’m willing to talk about my sins.”

  “I don’t want to talk about your sins.”

  “Jah, you do. You said I’m proud of my sins. At least let me defend myself.”

  Andrew’s eyes flashed, and the muscles of his jaw twitched as if he was ready to call Mary to repentance and help her get there all by himself. He’d never looked so handsome. Or so fierce. “You can’t defend yourself, Mary. You’ve done something terrible.”

  She sighed again, loudly. “I admit I’m a sinner, Andrew. So, what now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is that enough for you? Can we be friends, or are you still determined to avoid me?”

  “I’m not as petty as you believe I am,” he said. “People will say things, draw conclusions about me if they see me with you. Can you blame me for trying to avoid you?”

  “I suppose not.”

  He cleared his throat and wrapped his hands around her empty glass. “Someone needs to help you understand your place, Mary. You act as if you’re not sorry, as if you’re proud of breaking your parents’ hearts and jumping the fence and then getting pregnant without marriage. You walk around town as if you have nothing to be ashamed of. You upset many gute people when you came to the auction last week. You’ve ruined the gathering. Is it any wonder people avoid you? Don’t you care about their feelings? They’re just trying to protect their children and teach them the ways of righteousness. It makes it harder when you blatantly parade your sin in front of them.”

  Mary wasn’t upset by his admonishment or his ignorance.
His zeal just made her tired. She sighed a third time, almost too weary to explain. “Andrew, do you think I’m proud of being pregnant?”

  “Jah.”

  She hesitated. “I’m not proud of being stupid.” She thought of Frieda and her parents. “I’m not proud that I hurt so many people along my way. But no amount of groveling on my part is going to change what I’ve done.”

  “But you should at least show some remorse.”

  “Who says I haven’t?”

  That made Andrew stop for a second. “I haven’t seen any remorse.”

  “Believe me, Andrew, if my remorse were feed corn, it would fill ten silos and three barns.”

  “But, what about consequences? We should all suffer consequences for our sins.”

  Mary placed a protective hand on her stomach. “You don’t think this is a big enough consequence?”

  Andrew had nothing to say to that, but she thought maybe she saw a softening around his eyes.

  “Maybe you think I haven’t suffered enough, that I need to be punished.”

  He looked away. “Maybe. It doesn’t seem you’ve suffered enough.”

  “But didn’t Jesus suffer for our sins?”

  Andrew furrowed his brow and shifted on the sofa as if trying to get more comfortable. “You’re twisting things around. Jesus suffered for our sins, but how will the sinner learn to do right if he isn’t punished?”

  “Why do you assume that I haven’t already paid a high price for my deeds?” Mary smiled sadly and shrugged. “Or maybe it’s not good enough. How much punishment do you think I deserve? Was stubbing my toe enough punishment? When bad things happen to people, are they being punished for their sins?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “What sin did your dawdi commit to cause Gotte to send him a stroke?”

  Andrew stiffened and his knuckles turned white around the glass. “We’re not talking about my dawdi.”

  “Nae. I forgot. You want to talk about me and my sins.” She leaned her elbow on the armrest. “Let’s assume being pregnant is not a punishment for my sins. It’s a consequence, and I have come to terms with it. I truly believe that Gotte would never send a precious baby as a punishment. You may believe differently.”