An Amish Family Reunion

by Mary Ellis

  “While reading magazines,” muttered Eli, once she was out of earshot.

  At the row of elevators, Phoebe asked timidly, “What floor are you on? I’m on twelve.” They stepped in as the door opened.

  “Fourteen—one above yours, facing the street.” He pushed both buttons.

  “Two above,” she corrected. “And our room faces the river.”

  “For some bizarre reason, there is no thirteenth floor, so just one. But you were sure lucky to get a room with a view.”

  Once again he’d noticed something she’d been oblivious of. And artists are supposed to be highly observant. A bell signaled their arrival at floor twelve. “See you downstairs in the lobby,” she said nervously. They’d had the entire elevator to themselves, yet Eli stood close enough to her to count freckles.

  He held the door open with his shoulder as she exited. “I hope I can see that view some time before we check out on Sunday.”

  Phoebe didn’t look back or acknowledge she’d heard his bold comment. But the thought of blond, handsome Eli Riehl appreciating the river from her window made her feel faint. Why was he affecting her so?

  Her new storytelling friend turned out to be psychic as well as observant. Down in the lobby, Mrs. Stoltzfus announced loudly enough for everyone on the block to hear: “Stay together. We’re walking to Roman Garden’s Pizza Shop. You’ll be at tables for six. The pizza buffet is included in your package—all you can eat—but not the chicken wings or salads or other stuff.” She glared around at suspected big eaters. “You’re on your own for those, so don’t try anything funny.”

  Phoebe ate with her roommates and two of Mary’s hometown friends. She tried not to keep glancing over at Eli’s table but failed miserably.

  Mary noted Phoebe’s distraction. “Did you two go to Goat Island? To that cave attraction?”

  Phoebe swallowed her mouthful of mushroom and pepperoni. “Jah, we went to Goat, but not to the Cave of the Winds.” She quickly took another bite of pizza to discourage further conversation.

  “Why do they call it Goat Island?” asked Mary.

  “Don’t know.” Phoebe gulped some soda.

  “Is it really a giant cave with a strong breeze flowing through it?”

  “Don’t know.” Phoebe chewed her crust industriously.

  “Did you figure out how to get to the Bridal Veil Falls we saw on the map?” Mary was still nibbling her first slice.

  “No, we never saw anything like that.” Phoebe slurped her soft drink until she drained the glass. “Oops. I’d better get a refill.” She tried to scoot her chair back, but Mary grabbed her arm.

  “Wait,” she demanded. For someone smaller than Phoebe, the girl had quite a grip. She peered at Eli’s table and then at Phoebe. “What exactly did you two do over there?”

  “We saw Horseshoe Falls and then walked up to Three Sisters Islands, a mile upriver. We sat on a rock watching the rapids…and talked.” Her attempt to sound casual wasn’t working.

  “Just the two of you?” Awe gave each word special emphasis.

  “Jah—just him, me, and about two thousand other tourists. Need more Pepsi?” Not waiting for an answer, Phoebe picked up both glasses and headed to the drink dispenser. Midway across the restaurant, she cast another glance in Eli’s direction. At that precise moment, he turned in his chair and met her eye. He smiled as though he knew he’d been their topic of conversation.

  Once again, he had managed to accomplish the impossible.

  After breakfast the following day, the bus dropped them at the state park archway for another day of sightseeing. They were on their own, more or less. Of course, Mrs. Stoltzfus blocked the doorway with a short set of rules before they were allowed to disembark. “You must stay on park grounds or somewhere along the trolley route. You must stay with at least one other person from our group—no going off on your own. You are not to engage strangers in conversation other than to return a polite greeting.” Her eyes shifted around the bus at the suspected friendly sorts. “You’re on your own for lunch, but don’t eat strange food if you have a temperamental stomach. And everyone is to meet right here, under this arch at six o’clock, for the bus ride to the hotel for dinner. No exceptions.” This time she didn’t gaze around at suspected dawdlers—she stared first at Phoebe and then at Eli.

  “How can we know what time it is if we don’t have a watch and aren’t supposed to talk to Englischers?” asked a large boy in the back.

  “You may inquire about the time and information of that nature.” Mrs. Stoltzfus leaned to one side to focus on the tall boy. “Would you like to ask any more sassy questions, Jack Yoder, and chance sitting in your room with a magazine?”

  There was a smattering of laughter, but not another peep from Jack.

  “I’ll take your silence as a no.” She then stepped down to street level and allowed the group to exit. Everyone started talking, laughing, and planning their day.

  A strange pang of guilt struck Phoebe. What would my dad think about eight hours of complete freedom? But it wasn’t as though she’d lied to him, she told herself. She had no idea it would be like this.

  “Let’s go, Phoebe and Mary,” announced Rebekah. “Ava and I are heading to the 3-D Adventure Theater. How does that sound?”

  “Great!” Phoebe answered, choosing not to ask what the three D’s stood for. She’d asked enough stupid questions yesterday with Eli.

  Most of the Amish youths also chose the visitor center with its gift shops, giant movie screen, and endless assortment of junk food for their first destination. While waiting for the next movie showing, Phoebe saw Eli’s tall blond head among the young men. Today none of them wore hats and almost all wore their Plain shirts outside their pants and suspenders. Eli stood talking and laughing with great animation while in line for the Adventure Theater.

  Why do men always look like they are having more fun than women? Phoebe decided to forget about Eli for the rest of the day and have a great time with her girlfriends. After all, wasn’t this her rumschpringe? “What are you planning to buy for souvenirs, Rebekah?” she asked. That topic lasted the entire twenty-five-minute wait for their turn to see the movie.

  Mary listened to her extensive list with amazement. When Rebekah concluded and moved off to talk to others, Mary whispered to Phoebe, “Either she’s in for a rude awakening at the checkout, or she’s the richest Amish girl I’ve ever met.”

  “Probably more likely the first, but it costs nothing to dream big.”

  Suddenly, the theater doors swung inward. Phoebe felt her heart skip a beat as the crowd surged inside. All of the Plain girls sat together in two rows. She had no idea where the boys had gone, and she didn’t care because the lights immediately began to dim and the story of Niagara began. On the largest movie screen she’d ever seen, the story of an unfortunate Indian princess unfolded. The girl had been ordered to marry someone as old as her granddad while she was already in love with someone else. So she devised other plans for her future. Next they learned the saga of early French explorers who discovered the falls while crossing the continent. Besides the enormous picture, the sound seemed to come from all directions, making the experience too intense for Phoebe’s stomach at times.

  “You’ll want to pay careful attention to this next segment, Miss Miller,” said a voice over her shoulder.

  Phoebe jerked her head around. Despite the fact the speaker’s face was hidden with an upraised map, she would recognize that voice anywhere—Eli Riehl was sitting directly behind her.

  Honoring her earlier decision, she faced the screen and ignored the person tugging on a lock of hair that had escaped her kapp. Soon she did, indeed, identify the story developing before her in 3-D. It was the story of the schoolteacher who had ridden over the falls in a barrel in an attempt at fame and fortune.

  “This is the exact story your friend told us,” whispered Mary. “How did he know it before we got here?”

  Mary’s verbal question duplicated Phoebe’s own inte
rnal one. She shrugged. “I don’t know, but if I get another chance to chat with him, he has some explaining to do.” However, that particular conversation would be postponed until the ride back to Ohio. For the rest of the day, the girls and half of the boys remained together in a large group. They walked the botanical gardens; browsed gift shops; toured the Nature Center and Aquarium, where they fed fish to seals; and then rode the trolley back to Goat Island for a visit to the Cave of the Winds. They had saved this attraction for last because, as on the boat ride, everyone got wet.

  Eli talked mainly to his friends, while Phoebe talked to hers. But when the trolley passed the pathway to Three Sisters Islands, she experienced another odd pang—not of guilt, but of melancholy sorrow. What was wrong with her? She’d never been so affected by anyone, but knew she’d better get over it. Once they were back in Winesburg she would never see him again. During dinner that night at a delicious Chinese buffet, Phoebe made every effort to avoid Eli and his hypnotic dark eyes.

  The group ate breakfast in the hotel dining room the next morning. Afterward, their chaperones announced they had exactly thirty minutes to pack up and get down to the bus for their trip home. Phoebe threw clothes into the suitcase haphazardly so she could spend her remaining time at the window.

  It was a view she would never forget. So much power and energy were contained within the force of water. She stood mesmerized by the rapids, whirlpools, and ever-changing islets of trapped tree debris. God had always seemed majestic yet peaceful when she viewed the mist-shrouded meadows and rolling hills of her home. But this? This was evidence of a powerful, all-encompassing God…whom she hoped never to displease. Too bad Eli never got to see this.

  “The views from our bedroom windows will never be the same after seeing this,” said Rebekah, slipping an arm around Phoebe’s shoulder. “Come on. You don’t want to miss the bus. This would be one expensive cab ride back home.”

  Once their bus left the Niagara region, heading back toward Buffalo, the driver put in a Disney movie to the pass the time. Phoebe took out her pad and colored pencils, preferring to change some minor details on her drawings rather than watch a cartoon.

  “Mind if I sit with Phoebe for a while?” asked Eli of Mary Mast.

  “Not at all. I’ll go sit with my cousin.”

  Before Phoebe could stop her, Mary rose from the seat and vanished.

  “That was rather presumptuous of you.”

  “Ah, what a lovely word—presumptuous,” said Eli. “But no, I presume nothing. I merely hope you will let me sit with you and maybe show me the changes you’ve made.”

  She wanted to send him away, but instead she said, “Sit, if you like.” Then, as though she had no control over her hands, she gave him her tablet.

  It took him no time to find the schoolteacher drawings and even less to start smiling. “Perfect! You changed Miss Taylor to match the movie.” He handed back her art.

  “How did you know the story before we got there? Have you been to Niagara before?”

  “Nope. I read all I could before the trip in the library. You know what? I’ve never met anyone like you. And now that I’ve found you, I have a business proposition for you. Are you interested?”

  She took a long pull from her water bottle while studying him closely. “A business deal? What could the two of us possibly make and sell?”

  “I was thinking about a book—a children’s picture book, to be exact. I could make up a story and you could create illustrations that would endear our tale in every child’s heart across America.” He gazed out the window at the suburban sprawl of homes. “Maybe even the world.”

  “Are you serious?” she asked, afraid he might be teasing.

  He looked her in the eye. “I’ve never been so serious about anything before in my life. What do you say, Miss Miller? A joint venture of an artist and a storyteller.”

  She didn’t need to think about it, not for a minute. “Absolutely, yes. I would love to.” Phoebe would remember little about the remaining drive back to Ohio. Not the video, or the scenery of New York and Pennsylvania, or even the rest of the conversation with Eli. She could only think about one thing: She was about to become a children’s book illustrator.

  EIGHT

  Willow Brook

  Matthew recognized a bad sign when he saw one. When his foreman dropped him off at his driveway on Friday night, his house was dark. A sole kerosene lamp burned on the kitchen table in the back of the house.

  “Thanks, Pete,” he called, slamming the truck door. “See ya Monday morning.” Pete waved and drove home to his own family, while Matthew slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked up to face the music.

  It wasn’t as though he’d had much choice regarding his quitting time. When the owners of one of the horses he trained arrived late in the day, it was his job to present the horse and remain until everyone was satisfied. The stable’s groom had handpicked tangles from the horse’s tail and mane, but Matthew had to work him in the lunging ring to show off the progress that had been made since the last visit. Later, he’d tacked the horse out himself while the owners asked plenty of questions. He had a few of his own. Owners had different opinions as to how saddlebreds should be prepared for the prestigious show circuit. Because they paid very high fees for the services of Rolling Meadows Stables, it was his job to give them what they wanted, even if that meant sticking around until seven on a Friday night.

  Matthew entered his home through the back door, careful not to let the screen door slam. He knew his children would be asleep by now, postponing his reunion with them until morning. “Martha?” he called in an exaggerated whisper.

  After a few moments, his wife shuffled into the room. She wore a long nightgown, white socks, and an exhausted expression. She’d released her waist-length hair from its bun, and it trailed down her back in a loose plait. Despite her frown, Matthew thought she looked beautiful. “Evening, fraa. Sorry I’m late for supper.” He hung his straw hat on a peg and went to the sink to wash.

  “Late? Six-thirty or seven would be late. Supper is done and over with. I kept a bowl of stew warm for you so long that I’m sure it’s not fit for hogs anymore…if we owned any hogs.” She crossed her arms over her bodice. “I started supper at three o’clock. Now it’s nine. That’s bedtime, not the dinner hour.”

  Matthew considered suggesting that she start cooking at four or four-thirty, considering his schedule, but then squashed the notion. No sense stirring up a hornet’s nest when their time together was short. “Since, as you mentioned, we don’t own a pig, give me whatever stew you have left.” He kept his voice neutral, trying not to sound angry as he poured himself a glass of cold milk.

  “Do you mean to say you haven’t eaten yet?” Martha sound genuinely shocked.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He shot her a look over the refrigerator door. “I was working late tonight, Martha, not having dinner in a fancy restaurant with my boss.” His neutral tone had evaporated.

  She hurried to the stove and pulled a bowl from the oven with pot holders. She set it on his place mat along with some slices of homemade bread. Matthew sat down with his milk and stared into his supper. The colors and shapes of what had been potatoes, carrots, peas, onions, and beef had blended together into a greenish goo. “Good grief! How many times did you stir the pot? This looks like you put it through the butter churn.”

  “Quite a few times. I didn’t want it to stick to the bottom of my Dutch oven.”

  He shrugged. “Suppose it all ends up like this in my belly anyway, but could I have a spoon instead of this fork?”

  Martha brought a spoon, sat down across from him, and began to cry. “I’m sorry. I should have let it set out at room temperature. Cold would have been better than ruined. Want a sandwich instead?” Her large brown eyes were moist and shiny.

  “No, this will be fine. Maybe a few pickles if we have any left.” He patted her hand before she sprang to her feet.

  She placed a pla
te of pickles on the table. “I know you like your new job at Rolling Meadows. And I understand that more money means we can save faster for a place of our own someday, but—”

  Matthew interrupted, seeing a perfect opportunity to share his good news. Setting down his spoonful of mush, he extracted four twenties and a hundred dollar bill from his wallet. “You can put this into our savings account.” He took another piece of bread to scoop stew.

  Martha stared at the money and then picked up the hundred to study the face of Benjamin Franklin. “Isn’t this the guy who invented the lightning rod? Plenty of folks’ barns are still standing due to that man’s ingenuity.” She smiled at the cameo picture before dropping the bill atop the others.

  He finished his milk in three long swallows. “Jah, I think so, but the important thing is I got that money this week as tips in addition to my regular paycheck.” Pride bubbled up despite his better intentions. “Owners gave me those twenties just for bringing their horses out for inspection. And the owner who kept me there so late tonight? After looking at his watch he apologized and handed me a hundred dollars! I tried to refuse it, but he insisted. He said he knew I only got home on weekends and had forgotten today was Friday.” He tapped the bills into a neat pile, his stew forgotten. “Summer is only beginning—the busy season for saddlebreds. Just think how many tips I might make by summer’s end.”

  Martha’s soft brown eyes hardened. “Do you ever listen to yourself, Matthew Miller? Money, money, money—it’s your favorite topic of conversation these days. What would your dad say?”

  “I believe he would say that a man must support his family while saving for his own farm. And maybe he’d throw in something about wives not being so all-fired-up critical of their husbands all the time.”

  Unfortunately, he’d spoken loud enough to wake the baby. His daughter’s cries came wafting down the stairs from her second-floor bedroom.