Davey's Daughter

by Linda Byler

  Omar stirred in his sleeping bag, muttered to himself. Somewhere off in the distance, a dog began an erratic barking. Rolling onto her back, Sarah took up her little travel alarm and checked the time.

  12:38.

  She rolled back on her side, whispered goodnight to Lydia, and then cried herself to sleep, thinking of Matthew on his trip to Haiti without her. She refused to believe he had married another woman. He probably wasn’t married, just dating, she told herself. He wouldn’t have wanted her to come to Haiti if he was already married. And certainly not to a woman of color. That just wasn’t Matthew. But then neither was the flat, oily voice with the nasal twang she’d heard on the other end of the phone line.

  Sarah had told Lydia she was surprised, her pride rising to the surface. Surprise was such a lukewarm term for the horror of the reality that still had not sunk in. Disbelief was much more possible. She didn’t have to believe it, not yet.

  With that comforting thought, she fell asleep.

  A cow’s bawling woke her. She was cold, so she sat up, her hands raking across the slippery fabric of the sleeping bag. As if in the distance, yet somehow close by, she heard the idling of a car engine.

  The cow bawled again and rattled her chain. Sarah tilted her head, trying to catch the slightest noise. Above her, the new rafters creaked. The metal roof popped as it cooled in the night air. A truck changed gears out on the Lincoln Highway.

  Slowly, the great barn door slid back as if on its own. Sarah stifled a scream. A dark form wedged its way inside, followed by another. Immediately, a piercing wand of light waved from side to side, finding the occupants of the barn floor.

  Sarah leaped to her feet just as the figures turned to leave, clawing at the door.

  Sarah ran. Omar yelled and caught the one figure by the shirt. Together, they rolled down the incline outside the barn door.

  It was complete bedlam. Lydia screamed, and the children cried out as Omar rolled around in the grass, trying to keep hold of the writhing trespasser. Sarah sprinted to keep up with the fleeing figure ahead of her.

  Pent up anger lent wings to her feet, and her long legs pumped, her arms swung. A section of the gravel cut into her bare feet, and still she ran. Past the idling car, past Elam Stoltzfus’s dark house, beneath the huge maple tree across the road.

  She wasn’t sure what she’d do if she did catch the person in front of her. She simply wanted him away from Lydia. Away from the new barn. Away from even the possibility of bringing any sort of further destruction to that family who had already suffered more than enough.

  She cried out in surprise when the figure ahead of her suddenly crumpled into the tall weeds beside the road, sobbing hysterically as if strained for breath.

  “Don’t hurt me.”

  The whimpered cry was barely coherent.

  Behind them, the idling car revved to life and spun out of the widow’s driveway. The headlights dimmed, but the vehicle moved steadily towards them.

  In the glare of the headlights, Sarah cried out as the small, thin figure ahead of her lunged to her feet, still sobbing, and ran crazily, panicked, after the fast moving vehicle, her thin hair flying in every direction.

  “Ashley! Wait!”

  Sarah ran, trying to catch up, wanting talk to her, but the vehicle slowed and screeched to a grinding stop as Ashley flung herself into the passenger seat. The car took off, spraying dust and gravel and chunks of macadam into the dark night.

  Sarah stood in the middle of the road and stamped her foot, her fists clenched in rage and frustration. It had to have been Ashley. Why couldn’t she have caught her?

  All those questions, that nervous wondering, the pale, skinny girl frightened of her own shadow—it all suddenly made sense. Ashley was somehow involved in these barn fires. She knew more than she was willing to admit.

  Well, more was accomplished with honey than vinegar, her dat always said, so Sarah’s path was clear.

  Turning, she strode purposefully back to a disheveled Omar, a wilting Lydia, and the traumatized children, all standing in an unsteady little circle of light provided by a single flashlight.

  Everyone talked at once, but no one made any sense at all. It was four o’clock, the hour when weary farmers, tired of their night’s vigil, relaxed and slept deeply for another hour before it was time to get up and begin the morning milking.

  After everyone had calmed down a bit, Sarah helped Omar with the milking. Anna Mae and Lydia fed the horses, the calves, and heifers.

  The birds twittered as the sky lightened, heralding a new day, the navy blue streaks of night banished by the approaching orange, yellow, and pink of the sun.

  They called the police, after deliberating whether or not to mention Ashley Walter’s name.

  If it had been her, and if the police questioned her and she denied everything, all would be lost.

  If they kept the knowledge to themselves for now, perhaps more would be gained.

  They decided not to reveal the name.

  The police were courteous, listened to descriptions, and thanked them for the information, but as usual they didn’t supply any concrete promises. They were doing all they could, which Sarah knew consisted mostly of guess work so far.

  The vehicle had been small and of an indefinite light color. Omar could supply only the fact that his antagonist had dark hair and a slight build.

  Disheartened, they lingered over coffee, their appetites diminished by the event in the night.

  Already, the heat was intensifying, and little puffs of warm air were coming through the window screens.

  Sarah picked at the edge of her French toast, swirled it in syrup, then put down her fork.

  “I dread going home,” she said to no one in particular.

  “Stay here and help me do corn,” Lydia said quickly.

  “No, I should help my mother. She always has so much to do in August. I just don’t want to walk past Elam’s. What if Hannah stops me?”

  “She won’t.”

  With that assurance in her ears, Sarah strode purposefully home only to be confronted by Hannah, her dichly (head scarf) sliding off her head, her forehead already shining with perspiration, her apron as wrinkled as if she’d slept in it.

  “Sarah!”

  She clasped both of Sarah’s hands in her large, capable ones, her mouth pursed in a show of emotion.

  Wearily, resigned to her fate, Sarah lifted her eyes to Hannah’s, waiting, saying nothing.

  “It isn’t Matthew’s fault. He was confused. He’s born again now, and he said God guided him straight to this lovely woman who is just the most wonderful thing that ever happened to him. He says she has a heart of gold and is so well versed in the Scripture, same as him. He told me he found his soul mate. Think of it, Sarah. His soul mate. Oh, I believe it.”

  She stopped, searched Sarah’s eyes, then dropped her hands, stepping back.

  The slow rustle of the maple leaves above them played across Sarah’s flawless, tanned skin, the light in her eyes changing from yellow, green, and gold to a deep and restless gray, the hurt and sorrow of years of love and trust betrayed in the cruel manner which Matthew had chosen.

  Clearly, Sarah spoke, her words precise, well placed, ringing.

  “Hannah, in your opinion, nothing has ever been Matthew’s fault. His whole life has been spent atop the pedestal you provided for him.”

  “Sarah! Don’t be so….Why, Sarah, I hardly know you like this!”

  “Well, you can get to know me if you want. If not, that’s fine with me. I have been dragged through the muck by Matthew for the last time, Hannah. And you, too.”

  “But….”

  Sarah lifted a hand. “Perhaps I can find who I really am, post-Matthew.”

  “What?”

  Hannah was left standing by the side of the road, beneath the maple tree in the hot, morning breeze, puzzling about Sarah’s words. She didn’t know what exactly what Sarah had meant by “post-Matthew.”

  Word spread swift
ly via the grapevine—known as the Amish phone shanty—and Sarah, unknown to her, became a bit of a celebrity.

  She has more nerve than common sense, they said. Well, Davey Beiler’s girls are all alike. Outspoken. Not afraid to speak their minds. You wouldn’t think so, knowing their mother. She’s so tzimmalich (humble).

  Disbelieving individuals clapped work-roughened hands to their mouths, and with each phone call, Sarah’s caper got a bit more out of hand, until the folks in Perry County actually believed Davey Beiler’s ihr Sarah (his own Sarah) had caught the arsonist all by herself.

  Well good, they said. Now the poor folks in Lancaster County can relax.

  That part, at least, was the truth. Everyone figured after a scare like that, no one with brains in their head would attempt another barn fire for a good, long time. Men returned to their comfortable beds and enjoyed solid nights of sleep. Dogs returned to the safety of the back porch as the hot summer nights gave way to the winds of autumn, the time of harvest, council meeting, and communion services among the Amish.

  Sarah muddled through September, half-heartedly performing what was expected of her, nothing more. At market, she made a point of strolling by the leather goods stand, appearing as disinterested as possible, but not once did she catch sight of the elusive Ashley.

  The longer the girl’s absence continued, the more convinced Sarah became. Something definitely wasn’t right with that girl. She was almost certain she had chased her bashful friend that night at Lydia’s, but she harbored doubts as well.

  Even if Ashley was connected to the arsonist, she would never light a fire herself, Sarah was sure. More than likely, she was committed to a man who was the arsonist, or an accomplice.

  As time crawled by on sluggish treads, Sarah became steadily oblivious to any purpose or objective in her life. She was sick of all the flour and the yeast and the shortening, the plastic wrap and endless Styrofoam trays at market. She was tired of the milking and cleaning and other countless chores at home. There was no point in anything, with Matthew gone.

  Hannah no longer came to visit Mam, and Elam stayed at home, no longer bothering to walk over for a friendly chat with his neighbor. He carried the true humility of having a son gone astray, but Hannah bore her pride for her son like a misplaced banner, speaking loudly about his missionary work in Haiti without an ounce of modesty in her bearing.

  Nevertheless, Mam’s loyalty to her friend didn’t waver. She assured Sarah over and over that this was just Hannah’s way. Deep down, she was really hurting about her son’s disobedience to his parents’ wishes.

  The air was tinged with autumn’s smells, that dusty, earthy odor from the corn fodder being baled, the last of the hay put in bags.

  In the kitchen, Mam’s knife peeled deftly beneath the heavy skin of pale orange neck pumpkins. The garden had produced a gigantic pile of them, and Mam said they couldn’t be wasted. They’d cook them down, cold pack them in wide-mouthed jars, and have all the pumpkin they needed for a few years.

  Mam’s pumpkin pies won prizes throughout all of Lancaster County, due in part to her own home-canned pumpkin. Better than the orange stuff out of a can, she’d say.

  Without thinking, Mam remarked drily, “If there’s a chance of making a wedding for you within the next few years, we’ll have all the pumpkin we need.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mam,” Sarah answered, her voice heavy with sarcasm.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I know.”

  They worked in companionable silence, the orange flesh of the pumpkin bubbling on both gas stoves, one in the kitchen and one in the kesslehaus, filling the house with its autumn fragrance.

  Sarah was washing jars in hot, sudsy water, stacking them upside down on clean towels, when she heard a steady knock on the front door.

  She scrambled to rinse and dry her hands, then peered through the screen door at a man of ordinary height. He had no distinctive features, just dark eyes, his hair cut closely to his head, a graying mustache clipped cleanly along his upper lip.

  “Hello. My name is Thomas Albright.”

  “Hello.”

  “I’m wondering if I could come in and ask a few questions about the barn fires in your area.”

  Mam appeared behind her briefly, a quiet presence.

  “We don’t like to talk about them.”

  “But you will?”

  “We’d rather not.”

  “Why?”

  “Too much room to make mistakes.”

  “Well.”

  There was a pause. The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other as if to relieve the mounting tension in his mind.

  “Is your father home?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Is he or isn’t he?”

  Sarah eyed the man levelly, still feeling no apprehension. He didn’t appear very harmful. Sort of short and soft, babyfaced.

  “He’s baling corn fodder.”

  “Where?”

  “South of the barn.”

  In the kitchen, Mam set a kettle of boiling pumpkin on a cast iron trivet, letting it cool long enough to put comfortably through the strainer.

  “Could I ask him a few questions?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Smart cookie, aren’t you?”

  Sarah said nothing, lifted her chin coolly.

  “Tell me, if you’re so smart, how well do you know Ashley Walters?”

  “She’s an acquaintance.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes. We talk.”

  The man put his hands behind his back and tipped forward on the toe of his shoes, then back on his heels, surveying the ceiling of the porch, examining each screw holding the white vinyl in place.

  “Tell me, did you give chase to her the other night?”

  “What are you talking about? Of course not.”

  “Amish girls don’t lie.”

  So, it was her wits against his. What did this man want from her?

  “No, they don’t,” Sarah countered.

  “But you do.”

  “How do you know Ashley?”

  “Let’s just say she’s an acquaintance.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Yes.”

  “You do?”

  He mocked her with his eyebrows. “So what will you do if I smoke?”

  “Probably nothing.”

  “Good girl.”

  Deliberately and taking his time, he made quite a show of extracting a package of cigarettes, finding a lighter by patting his pockets. After he lit a cigarette, be began insolently blowing smoke through the screen on the door.

  Sarah didn’t flinch.

  “Why don’t you come out on the porch if you’re not going to invite me in?”

  “I’m helping my mother.”

  “She in there?”

  “Yes.”

  He moved up against the screen door, pressing the length of his body against it, waggled his fingers, and said, “Hi, Mrs. Beiler.”

  “Hello,” Mam said politely, then went on washing her sieve, as if he was of as much consequence as an annoying fly.

  “Not very friendly, is she?”

  “She’s friendly.”

  “Just not to me.”

  Sarah remained silent, wishing he’d leave.

  “So, when you chased Ashley the other night, what were you going to do with her if you caught her?”

  Sarah didn’t answer.

  “I thought you Amish were nonresistant.”

  “We are.”

  “You call that nonresistant?”

  When Sarah didn’t answer, he flattened himself against the screen door a second time, gave a small derisive snort, and told her to stay away from Ashley Walters. Then he added that if anyone in Lancaster County thought they could relax about their barns, they were badly mistaken.

  “The worst is yet to come,” he growled theatrically.

  With that,
he flicked the burning cigarette into the shrubbery, turned on his heel, and left.

  A brown SUV. There was nothing in particular to set it apart from hundreds of others. Sarah still wasn’t frightened as she coolly informed Mam that he reminded her of a little Chihuahua trying to scare someone.

  “He may be dangerous. You’d better tell Dat,” Mam said, wisely wagging her head in that knowing way of hers.

  Six fresh pumpkin pies were lined up on the countertop when Dat came in from baling corn fodder, dusty, his eyes red-rimmed with weariness, his hair clinging to his scalp.

  He caught sight of the pies, and an appreciative grin spread along his lips, changing the light in his eyes. “I can’t believe my good fortune. What a wife!”

  Mam blushed and beamed, smoothed her apron with both hands, and said, “Why, thank you, kind sir!”

  There was a happy chortle form the rolling desk chair, and Levi burst out, “Da Davey und de Malinda sinn kindish (Davey and Malinda are childish)!”

  Dat was wily, and he knew light-hearted banter would mean a generous slice of pie, so he played right along with Levi.

  Sarah burst out laughing, and Suzie threw her report card, hitting Levi’s shoulder. He bent to retrieve it, leaned to one side, and slid it beneath his backside, sitting solidly on the offending item.

  “Gepps (Give it back).” Suzie stood in front of Levi, hand outstretched. “Gepp (Give it).”

  Resolutely, Levi shook his head.

  “Young girls have to learn not to throw report cards.”

  “Levi!” Suzie howled.

  “Levi!” he mimicked, lifting his face and howling.

  Suzie dove into him, pushing forcefully on his stomach, and, with Levi’s feet both resting on the chair legs above the casters, he was sent skimming backward across the smooth linoleum, coming to rest with a clunk against Dat’s roll top desk. His head snapped forward, and a great guffaw was expelled from open mouth.

  “Na grickst net (Now you won’t get it)!”

  Suzie shrieked and ran after him, shoving him against the sofa, where he spun helplessly in a half-circle, giggling wildly.

  Priscilla looked up from the sewing machine, leaped to her feet, put her hands on the back of the rolling chair, and sent him flying away from Suzie, as he shrieked with glee.