by Linda Byler
Stories circulated about groceries being stored in the cellar and every available cupboard, even the attic, at Lydia’s home. A brand new EZ Freeze propane gas refrigerator from Indiana also arrived out of nowhere.
Lydia hadn’t had a refrigerator all winter, but she said she was thankful for the ice chests on the front porch. Sarah knew she probably didn’t have much to put in them anyway.
Lengths of fabric, buttons, spools of thread. Coats and shawls and bonnets. The donations were endless. It was enough to make a person cry, Mam said.
The Beiler family hummed with a new purpose—that of making a different and a better life for the Widow Lydia. Dat had dark circles of weariness under his eyes from lack of sleep, and Mam was way behind with her housecleaning. March was coming in like a gentle lamb, just right for opening windows, airing stuffy rooms, turning mattresses, and sweeping cobwebs.
Sarah missed another week at market, and Priscilla traipsed over to the Esh family farm with any weak excuse. Sarah had a feeling her visits were more about Omar, Lee Glick, and the Belgians than anything else.
Then another bolt shook the community. Lydia Esh simply disappeared.
A frenzied knocking on the front door of the Beiler home was the beginning. Dat stumbled to the door in the dark, his heart racing, his mind anticipating the sight of the familiar orange flickering of someone else’s barn burning yet again.
Instead, he found a sobbing Omar, completely undone, his mother’s disappearance stripping away all the steely resolve that had upheld him after their barn burned.
Davey steered him into the dark kitchen with one hand and buttoned his trousers with the other before going to the propane lamp cabinet and flicking the lighter that hung from a string below the mantles.
As a yellow light flared across the room, Omar sank into the nearest chair. He covered his face with his torn, blue handkerchief, shaking his head from side to side, the only way he could think to show Davey Beiler, the preacher, how bad it was.
“I’m not surprised. I’m not surprised,” he repeated over and over.
Dat remained calm and said nothing. Then he looked up to find his loving wife and steady helpmeet—dressed with her apron pinned on and her white covering in place—padding quietly across the kitchen in her house slippers.
When Levi called out loudly, insisting that someone tell him what was going on, Mam spoke to him quietly and said he must stay in bed, which seemed to comfort him. He obeyed, grunting as he turned on his side and muttering about “da Davey Beila und all sie secrets (that Davey Beiler and all his secrets)” before falling asleep.
Omar spoke quickly. He couldn’t seem to stop, his seventeen-year-old voice rising, cracking, falling, telling a journey of pain that had been repressed far too long.
“It wasn’t the way you think it was in our family,” he began.
A story of such magnitude had never before assailed Dat’s heart. How could the children have appeared so normal? Omar was saying his mother had always been abused.
“Abused?” Dat asked.
“Whatever you call it. He called her horrible names. He hit her across the face, across the back. He pushed her into the gutters when they milked and laughed when the manure surged around her legs. He seemed to hate her and wanted to make her cry. But he couldn’t stand her crying either. If she didn’t cry, he quit easier than if she did.”
“What about you children?” Dat asked grimly.
“It wasn’t us. He was good enough to us. Not always nice, but he never laid a hand on any of us—just her.”
“Why?”
Omar shrugged, wiped his nose, and then fell into a silence steeped in abject misery.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“Was your mother….How shall I word this? Did she do anything to deserve your father’s behavior? Did she fight back? Treat him miserably so that he retaliated? Was it just a bad marriage?”
“Mam always did the best she could. She finally got to blaming herself, assured us she just hadn’t tried hard enough, spent too much money, overcooked his eggs, threw away some food. Whatever trivial thing he accused her of, she believed him and took the blame.”
He began crying uncontrollably then, unable to form coherent words.
Mam came to stand beside Dat. She placed a warm hand on the worn, white t-shirt covering his shoulder and massaged it, a gesture born of habit, telling her burdened husband she was there for him and supported him always.
“I’m so afraid. I’m afraid to look for her. I’m….”
Omar looked up, the terror in his eyes a palpable thing.
“She….What are we going to do if she…killed herself?”
Dat spoke. “Omar, she wouldn’t do that. She was not mentally ill. Your mother is a strong, good woman. She may have gone to her parents for advice or to a minister.”
Vehemently, Omar shook his head.
“No, she didn’t.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Her parents blame her for the abuse. She told me.”
A shadow moved across Dat’s face, and he swiftly rose to his feet.
“Call Sarah, Malinda.”
His voice was terrible in its purpose.
“Come, Omar. We must find her.”
“Why…why are you in a hurry now?”
“She may be like a trapped animal. We need to search.”
Together they moved out the door, Dat shrugging into his old, black work coat and setting his straw hat firmly on his head.
Sarah was awakened by the urgency in Mam’s voice. She dressed quickly and ran down the stairs, followed by Priscilla.
Mam’s face was pale, grim.
“Go help look for Lydia. She just disappeared, late this evening. Omar talked. It’s frightening.”
Sarah shivered, thinking of Lydia’s aversion to being touched.
“God, please go with us now.”
The prayer was simple but sincere as she grabbed her sweater and ran down the porch steps and out to the road, her long legs propelling her easily, her breath coming fast but comfortably. She was fit and young, strong with the physical labor to which she was accustomed.
Dat had a lantern, Omar a powerful flashlight. They gave the girls a battery lamp and instructions, their faces tense with the reality of this night.
“We’ll stay within the farm’s boundaries. If we don’t find her, we’ll have to call 911. You girls search the house first.”
Priscilla whimpered, an almost inaudible sound, but Sarah heard it and reached out to take her hand.
“Do you….Would you rather go back home?”
“No. I want to stay with you.”
Quietly, not wanting to wake the children, they tiptoed down to the basement, holding their breaths. They held the lantern high, the white light casting weird shadows on the aged walls. The paint was peeling, and greenish mold grew along the bottom of the stone walls.
A pile of empty potato bags almost stopped their heartbeats. Sarah kicked them aside, relieved.
The basement produced nothing. There was no sign of anyone having disturbed anything at all, so they tiptoed back up the dusty staircase. They searched the kitchen, living room, the main bedroom, even beneath the unmade bed. Then they inched their way upstairs.
“We can’t wake the children.”
“I know.”
“The attic?”
Would they be strong enough to face something as horrifying as….? Sarah refused to think the word. She wouldn’t.
Turning the old, porcelain knob on the attic door, Sarah grimaced as it squeaked loudly. Then she stepped cautiously on the first old stair tread, which groaned forcefully. Hoping for the best, they made their way steadily up the stairs, every step sending out a new and strange squeak or groan, until they reached the top where they stood together, their breathing inaudible.
Sarah held the battery lantern up and sighed. Boxes, bags, old furniture, torn window blinds. There was nothing of value, but the huge jumble of thing
s could hide a person well. The rafters were low and dark with age. Nails had been pounded into them, no doubt having held hams and onions and strings of dried peppers in times past.
“You hold the lantern,” Sarah whispered.
Priscilla obeyed and held it high as Sarah moved boxes and bags and got down on her knees to search beneath the eaves. Priscilla’s large, frightened eyes searched the rafters, thinking the unthinkable.
Suicide.
God, we’ve come this far. Please stay with us.
When Sarah yelped in alarm, Priscilla clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the shriek behind it, but it escaped around her fingers. She couldn’t hold back the high-pitched scream.
No matter now, Sarah thought resolutely. They’d have to know. Her hand had made contact with a thin form lying behind an old quilt frame. She was on her back, her face turned to the side, her skin translucent, her eyes closed.
Sarah crawled closer and put an ear to Lydia’s chest. She raised exultant eyes to Priscilla, who was now trembling.
Muffled bumps and cries from below told them of the children’s rude awakening by the awful sound in the night.
“She’s warm! She’s breathing. Lydia!”
Sarah shook the limp shoulders gently.
“Beside her,” Priscilla said.
Sarah’s eyes took in the bottle of ibuprofen. The cheap brand from Walmart. Equate. Suddenly it angered her, and her mind refused to accept this bottle of pills lying empty, the cap carefully replaced.
“Get Dat! Tell the children to be quiet.”
She guessed anger was a good replacement for fear. It could get her through the worst of times if it had to. Sarah was braced up by it, strong because of it, as Dat and Omar pounded up the stairs, their eyes wide, the fear mixed with relief, and, yes, anger.
“Let’s get her down,” Dat barked.
“Omar, call 911. Now.”
“On my cell phone?”
“However.”
In his moment of terror, he wasn’t thinking straight, Sarah knew. It was only later that she allowed herself a small smile, thinking of Omar asking her dat, the minister, if he should use his cell phone. Cell phones were forbidden instruments of encroaching technology, but they were used by many of the youth and some older people as well.
Grunting, Dat reached for Lydia’s still form, pulling her away from the eaves and instructing Sarah to hold her below her knees. He’d take the shoulders.
Sarah was not sure she could carry this poor creature down the attic stairs. Even a thin woman was dead weight in that state.
She hesitated.
“I…I don’t know.”
“You can do it, Sarah.”
Together, they inched their way down the creaking attic stairs. Lydia’s head rolled to the side awkwardly, her legs flopping on either side of Sarah’s hands and her feet slapping randomly against the steps.
“Kinna. Bleivat drinn! (Children. Stay there!)” Dat called, his voice loud with authority. They were crying, asking questions, and Anna Mae refused to obey, charging through the doorway of her bedroom, crying uncontrollably.
“She’s sick,” was all Dat said.
“Come, Anna Mae. Come with me. The ambulance is coming.”
Priscilla slid an arm about Anna Mae’s shoulder, explaining, consoling. Her sobs turned to sad, hiccupping whimpers.
By the time they’d finally reached the living room on the main floor, the high, wailing sirens were already audible.
Sarah met Dat’s eyes, visibly relieved. They both looked at Lydia, her frame swallowed by the old green sofa, the holes torn in the upholstery covered by a crocheted afghan, discolored from frequent washings in the old washing machine.
A sadness spread through Sarah’s heart as the knowledge of this pitiful situation spoke to her. Lydia looked so young, her skin pearl white, her wide eyes closed, her mouth still determined, strong.
How old was she?
Omar was seventeen years old.
Please let her live, dear God. Just let her live. Sarah wasn’t aware that she was praying until she saw Melvin come charging through the front door, and she burst into tears of shock and relief all at once.
Sarah had forgotten that Melvin belonged to the fire company now. Since the barn fires had started, he was determined to be of value to the community. But nothing had ever prepared him for this sight, and he had to step aside, grappling with the overwhelming emotion, and let the trained personnel take over.
Lydia was hospitalized, and the deadly quantity of ibuprofen removed from her stomach by the greatest invention, the stomach pump. Her parents were at her side, the beginning of a deep remorse entering their hearts.
Sarah and Priscilla stayed with the children, and they talked with Melvin and Omar for hours. Anna Mae hovered around the conversation, her face white with fear and disbelief.
Melvin listened, dumbstruck for once in his life. It was an uneasy situation for him, being cornered by an unbelievable situation and rendered helpless without knowing what to say. He had never in his life felt the kind of pity that swelled up inside him and took away every other emotion. Even his bravado was gone and his skill of planning, of moving and shaking. He simply did not know what should be done, except maybe get down on his knees and admit to God that he didn’t understand how he felt, and He’d have to make it plain.
In the morning, when Sarah was frying cornmeal mush for the children and Priscilla was helping Omar do chores, there was a soft knock on the door, and Matthew entered.
Sarah was giddy with happiness to see him. She lay down the spatula she was holding, her eyes weary with the events of the night, and said, “Good morning!”
“Sarah!” Matthew greeted her as joyfully. Without a thought of the children, she flew into his arms and was held, secure in a haven of comfort.
Her Matthew. Still unbelievable, after these months of dating.
“Tell me what happened,” he said, his face alight with interest, his eyes soft and kind, such a rich brown and filled with caring.
Sarah obeyed. She spoke quietly to protect the children from more fear, then turned to the stove to finish breakfast.
Matthew listened and then responded kindly but with a sort of petulance, inquiring about her having to be there.
“Oh, we’re neighbors, Matthew. Omar came to our door.”
“Every time there’s a scene, and that seems to be happening with a certain regularity, there you are in the middle of it. Why?”
His tone was high, anxious, mocking.
Sarah remained at the stove, her back turned, and she stood very still, breathing slowly, gathering control.
Turning, she said levelly, “It’s my duty. My parents always stress that.”
“Well, mine don’t.”
There was nothing to say in response.
As if he had suddenly been given a new license, he began to barrage Sarah with his ideas about the barn fires.
Quite clearly, these fires brought out what was in the Amish, which wasn’t very much, he said. He rambled on about this woman who was so worldly she’d attempt suicide and how Mervin was drowned by the devil’s hand.
“I mean, Sarah, look around you. God is trying to say something here. All this isn’t happening to the Mennonites or the other churches around us that are much more spiritual.”
A dagger of fear shot through Sarah, but she quickly gathered her composure and calmly broke eggs into a pan. She bent gracefully to lay slices of bread in the broiler of the old gas stove.
“I think the Amish church is way out of line. All we think about is ordnung (rules). There’s a reason for these barn fires.”
Sarah slid the door of the broiler shut with her foot and gave it a small kick to make sure it closed all the way. Then she slid a spatula beneath a sizzling egg, still remaining quiet.
“Well, aren’t you going to answer?”
“Yes, Matthew. You have a point. Of course.”
He came over and stood a little too close to
her. He whispered in her ear about how he wanted to kiss her, but there were too many eyes around. Then let himself out the door with a silly wave, leaving Sarah smiling foolishly at the eggs. She kept on smiling as the children sat around the table and ate their breakfast.
Oh, that Matthew was something. She sure hoped he wasn’t going to get some idea about leaving the church into his head, just because of the fires.
She watched as the teams began to arrive, the kindly women entering the kitchen, asking questions, clucking, caring. The police and private investigators came, asking questions, interrogating Omar, Priscilla, and Dat as well as herself.
They tried to remain as truthful as possible but knew, ultimately, that the real reason for the attempted suicide would have to come from Lydia herself.
The news reporters and journalists went wild with the nature of this story, the barn fires projected on TV screens across the nation, sensational half-truths filling the members of the Amish community with dread.
Where would it end? How much was simply too much?
At home again together, gathered around the kitchen table, Dat spoke at length, sparing his family nothing. He said these were hard times, spiritually as well as emotionally, and they would all need to remain steadfast in prayer and supplication and draw close to God to ask his guidance.
Levi said God was angry at Lancaster County, and everybody better sit up and take notice. Dat reprimanded Levi sharply, something so unusual even Mam looked surprised.
“God is allowing this to draw us together. Look at poor Lydia. A family in dire straits, robbed of a chance to have….” He stopped and broke down, his eyes filled with so much tender pity, Sarah imagined his eyes looked like God’s somehow.
Sarah, however, kept the small tidbit of Matthew’s attitude hidden. He was likely just going through a bad time, unable to do anything about these fires continuing and feeling helpless because of it. Bless his heart.
Despite the somber topic, Priscilla was beaming and smiling, unable to contain her excitement about the new barn Abner Fisher had just designed for the horses, those Belgians. She said if Omar didn’t mind, she’d like to work with them, and if she was allowed, she wouldn’t need another horse to replace Dutch.
