by Gayle Roper
Mr. Geohagan saw me staring at them and misunderstood. “These aren’t the originals,” he said. “They’re copies. The police need the originals for evidence against those guys. They said you made a great ruckus until they promised to deliver copies to me.” He grinned at me. “I’m proud of you. I just wish I’d seen you in action.”
It was a good thing he hadn’t seen me last night. I had behaved quite badly. I’d been upset about Clarke—massive understatement—and I focused all that distress on the poor policeman who had to deal with me. I think I even cried a bit over how important it was to get those papers to the poor and dying man to whom they belonged.
“He was counting on me,” I had said with exaggerated histrionics. “Please don’t let it look like I’ve disappointed him. I couldn’t stand that! He has no one else in the whole world!”
In retrospect it was enough to make me gag.
Mr. Geohagan took my hand in his thin, dry one. He patted me gently. “I spent the last couple of days worrying about you,” he said. “First there was that louse, What’s-his-name, and then those terrible men last night!”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. I tried to smile reassuringly, but I gave up the effort. “Eventually, anyway. I’m sad right now, but I’m strong, you know. I certainly don’t plan to do anything like Cathleen, either on purpose or accidentally, if that concerns you. I plan to depend on God to help me get through it all.”
Some of Mr. Geohagan’s solicitude faded.
“Don’t go getting mad at the mere mention of God,” I said. “You look like a thundercloud trying to find the energy to crack the skies open.”
“That bad?”
I nodded. “Worse. Almost as bad as me.”
We sat in companionable silence for a few moments.
Finally I said, “Well, I got your papers for you. Did you read the Gospel of John for me?”
“Believe it or not, I did. It was kind of interesting.”
I think I hid my surprise. “How was it interesting?”
He cleared his throat self-consciously. “I wasn’t aware that Jesus was so outspoken about Himself. ‘I’m the Bread of Life.’ ‘I’m the Lamb of God.’ ‘I’m the only way to God.’ I thought men had made all those things up because they wanted them to be true. Of course, maybe they still did. After all, Jesus didn’t write the book of John. John could say anything he wanted.”
I nodded. “Sure, John or others could have made those things up, but would they then die for things they knew were lies?”
“Maybe they didn’t lie. Maybe they told the truth as they knew it. Maybe Jesus lied,” the old man said. “Maybe He’s no more God than the nut on the corner.”
“Could be,” I agreed. “But would people die for someone who was a liar or nut? Or live for one, either?”
“People are notoriously gullible. There’s always some group following some demented guru somewhere.”
“True. But those cults always die out, sometimes by their own hand. We’re talking about millions of people over a period of two thousand years when we talk about all those who have followed Jesus.”
He looked at me. “You obviously think He was telling the truth.”
“I do.”
He pulled a piece of paper off one of the piles on his bed and turned his attention ostentatiously to it. “I’m not so sure myself. Maybe I’m just not as trusting as you.” He grabbed a second sheet of paper. “I need to think about it some more.”
I recognized the finality in his tone. There would be no more talk about God today. That was all right. I would allow him to set the pace. It wasn’t my job to change his heart, just to help him consider. I reached in my new handbag for a paperback and settled back to read as though I still had the ability to concentrate. Hah! All I saw when I looked at the page was a beautiful blonde with her arms wrapped around Clarke’s neck.
Oh, Lord! How did this happen? How did I get so emotionally involved so quickly?
I turned a page so Mr. Geohagan would think I really was reading.
How had I misunderstood Clarke so? Was I really that stupid? That gullible? My father should be thanking his lucky stars that I hadn’t gone into the law. Someone as foolish as I was would have made a rotten attorney.
There was a knock on the door, and a young man with the strangest shape I’d ever seen entered. His legs seemed to begin under his arm pits, and he looked as though he had no chest. I studied him, wondering where he kept his heart and lungs and other thoracic items, happy to think about something besides my own misery.
He nodded politely at me but turned his attention to Mr. Geohagan. “I think you wanted to see me?”
“Ah. Yes, yes, yes. Come in. Come in.” Such enthusiasm made me study the unusual man even more.
Looking hopeful, the strangely shaped man oozed to the side of the bed without seeming to move, an impressive accomplishment considering that he was all legs.
“Kristie, I don’t mean to be impolite, but I must talk to this young man for a while,” Mr. Geohagan said, smiling apologetically.
“I understand.” I got quickly to my feet and waved a friendly farewell. “I’ll see you later.”
I left Holiday House and drove home, back into all the chaos and excitement of Ruth’s wedding. Just what I needed. I sighed as I climbed out of my car.
What ironic timing, Lord. My world’s falling apart while Ruth is building hers. I’m glad for her. I really am. I want her and Isaiah to be as happy as any couple ever was. But does everything have to be so hard for me right now? It hardly seems fair.
I went upstairs and lay on my crimson-and-blue quilt, where I stared miserably at the ceiling. When a stray tear began rolling across my temple into my hair, I turned on my side and let it be absorbed by the quilt. I shivered, and then I twitched and turned until the quilt was covering me. I curled on my side again, trying to get warm.
I shall stay here forever, Lord, curled in this tight little ball of pain. You don’t mind, do You?
Even if the Lord didn’t mind, which I suspected He did, I knew that eventually Mr. Edgars would. He had this thing about his teachers coming to work each morning. At least I had arranged to take tomorrow off for the wedding. I sighed deeply, a melancholy and self-pitying habit I had recently acquired.
I’ll break it, Mom. I promise. Someday. When I’m happy again. If I ever am. Just don’t wave that finger in my face. This isn’t buck-up-my-girl time.
I sighed again. Between thoughts of Mom and Mr. Edgars, my wallowing had lost its flavor. I might as well get up and go eat dinner—if I could swallow. I pulled myself upright and went downstairs to see who was here now.
Friends and relatives I had never seen before had been visiting all week, helping with preparations and offering good wishes, and the festive air had intensified as the wedding day grew ever closer. A new Amish family was about to be established, and the whole society recognized the significance and importance of this fact. The Lancaster County Amish community was healthy and growing. The retention rate after rumspringa was impressively high. And Ruth and Isaiah were another patch in the quilt of the People’s lives.
With tomorrow the big day, the shed off the kitchen bulged with food, provisions had been made to stable all the horses expected, and the big downstairs room had been emptied of all of its everyday furniture.
“How long will this wedding last?” I asked Jake. “The actual ceremony, I mean.”
He sat in the doorway to his apartment, and I sat on the bottom step leading to my rooms. We were a little pocket of calm in the whirlwind that had been sweeping the house since daybreak.
The men had been killing and cleaning chickens, ducks, and turkeys; the women had been baking pies, making dressing to stuff the fowl, and peeling enough potatoes to feed my entire school. The men also cleaned the celery, emptied the garbage, and built temporary tables for the wedding feast. These tables now lined the entire downstairs room. The house was redolent with the scent of onions, celery, and spices.
> “The service will take three to four hours,” Jake said stiffly. He was still slightly angry with me over my accusation two nights ago that he hid behind others. Or maybe it was from the suggestion that he meet Rose. I didn’t have the emotional energy to figure it out right now. Maybe later.
“It takes four hours?” I stared at him with no enthusiasm. “I’m used to sitting still for thirty-five to forty-five minutes for a sermon at most. Four hours is a bit long, isn’t it?”
“And wait until Old Amos gives his sermon,” Jake said with a harsh laugh. “He says the same thing every time. The same thing. Not that you’ll understand.” He looked at me. “It’ll all be in High German.”
Four hours of High German. Maybe I should just go to school after all and show up in time for the feast.
Ruth gave a sudden peal of laughter at something Isaiah said, and as I watched them, I knew I wouldn’t miss this wedding for anything. Not only was I curious, but I liked Ruth and her practical joker very much.
“What will this Old Amos say that I won’t understand?”
“He always talks about Noah,” Jake said. “He used to do Sarah and Abraham until finally someone told him that he always said the same thing. So he switched, and now he always says the same thing about Noah.”
“What does he say?”
“He talks about how corrupt Noah’s world was and how Noah and his family followed God and how God kept them safe through the flood. So everyone should be certain they raise up a family that follows God, and He’ll keep them safe through the floods of life.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I said.
Jake shrugged, forgetting to be angry for the first time since our fight. “It takes him at least a half hour to say it.”
I laughed. “How about your father? Does he speak at weddings?”
“Always, but he tries to tailor his comments to the couple, and he works hard to be short and to the point.”
“That’s not surprising,” I said as Jake’s phone sounded in the distance. “Your father’s a very fine man.”
Jake stiffened suddenly, looked at me as if he’d never seen me, and then wheeled into his rooms without a word. He shut his door firmly behind him.
I sat, confused, thinking back over what I’d just said. How could I have upset him by saying his father was a fine man?
I went back upstairs feeling as dynamic as melted ice cream.
I didn’t feel much better the next morning as I dressed for the wedding, but the excitement was contagious as soon as I came downstairs. Ruth and Isaiah and their two attending couples had already left for the Stoltzfus farm where the ceremony was to take place, but the Zook farm was bustling with last-minute activity. I was surprised to learn that John and Mary probably wouldn’t go to the wedding. They would be too busy with the duties of preparation and hosting.
My mother would die before she missed my wedding—if and when I ever had one. And Dad had big plans to give his baby away, even though he always teased about holding the ladder so my groom and I could elope. It seemed very sad that John wouldn’t get to preach at his own daughter’s wedding.
“Won’t Ruth and Isaiah feel bad if your parents aren’t there?” I asked Jake as he drove me to the Stoltzfus farm. He offered no explanation for his abrupt leaving last night, but his stiffness had returned.
“Parents often don’t go to the wedding,” he simply said. “They’re too busy with last-minute preparations for the feasting. Everybody understands.”
I shrugged mentally. If everyone understood, then it wasn’t an issue. Cultural differences were such fascinating things.
I took a seat on the back bench in the women’s section and watched the festival of Amish life swirl around me. Several of the women whom I had previously met nodded shyly to me and smiled. I was relieved to see I wasn’t the only English guest, but we were a definite minority. I saw Andy and Zeke slip into seats beside Jake. It was warming to see the brothers shake hands with obvious affection. The rest of the English family, including daughters-in-law and grandchildren, sat near me in the back. Though they were relatives, this was a community day, and none of us were part of the community.
Ruth and Isaiah sat on the front row with their attending couples. One by one the district ministers rose and gave their sermons on the responsibilities and privileges of marriage. Just as Jake had warned, Old Amos rambled on and on. By contrast, the others spoke briefly and forcefully. I had no idea what any of them said, but everyone listened carefully and nodded their heads.
I thought of the last wedding I had attended, that of my college roommate. There had been flowers and music, and Mandie had worn yards of lace. The groomsmen had worn morning coats, and the bridesmaids, including me, had been resplendent in a gorgeous shade of teal and carried nosegays of pink and crimson roses with trailing ivy. We had purposely and forcefully called attention to ourselves, dressing extravagantly for the special occasion.
By contrast Ruth and Isaiah were dressed much as they were any other day except that everything they wore was new. Ruth had told me that she would take the fresh white cape and apron she was wearing and pack them away, not wearing them again until her burial, but Isaiah’s shirt and pants and hat would join his wardrobe as Sunday clothes.
My back hurt before the service was half over, but I tried not to squirm, especially since the children around me were sitting so quietly. One mother near me touched her fidgeting three-year-old, and he immediately stilled. A small piece of whoopie pie was his reward.
Suddenly, all I wanted in this world was a whoopie pie.
When the service finally ended, everyone headed for the Zook farm. Jake and I arrived first, and he pulled as far out of the way as he could. The rest of the family parked off the farm and walked over.
Soon buggy after buggy turned into the drive. The horses were quickly released from the shafts and led to the makeshift barn, where they were tethered, fed, and watered. Buggies filled the drive, a sea of gray enclosures and black wheels, the shafts pointing to the sky.
The men gathered in groups to talk and tell stories, their black felt hats firmly in place. The teenagers eyed each other in the manner of teens of any culture, and the little children played tag and kicked an old soccer ball, working off some of their contained energy. The women, chattering and laughing, gravitated to the kitchen and the final preparation for serving the food.
As I watched the press of people, I felt very much apart from them. I wanted only to be alone. I needed to be alone. All the camaraderie and love was more than I could deal with at the moment.
I slipped upstairs and traded my heels for a pair of flats. I hoped Ruth didn’t see me leave, but I doubted it would even register if she did. The scores of people milling around gossiping, storytelling, and eating made it impossible to know who was doing what or going where.
I walked slowly down the road to Aunt Betty Lou’s and Uncle Bud’s, where I’d parked my car. It was a crisp November day, sunny and bright. The branches were largely bare, the flowers dead, shriveled by the sharp snap of frost last week. It was the beginning of the stark season.
I drove my yellow car aimlessly for a while, and then I found myself pulling up in front of Holiday House.
Well, why not? I parked and went up to Mr. Geohagan’s room.
When I walked in, he was busy talking to the guy with no chest, the one who had visited him yesterday. They were examining some of the papers Mr. Geohagan had spread all over the bed.
They stopped talking as soon as I walked in the room, looking at me and then at each other as though I’d caught them spiking the punch at the high school dance. Mr. Geohagan frowned and the strange man stared as though he couldn’t believe I had been so tactless as to enter.
I suddenly felt thirteen, the awkward, inept intruder who wanted to be part of the gang but would never be accepted. I blinked in surprise. What was happening here? The strange man was the one who didn’t belong, not me. I’d literally risked my life for this old man
. I was the true and loyal friend. Wasn’t I?
Mr. Geohagan waved his hand dismissively at me. “Another time, Kristie,” he said abruptly.
“Sure,” I said and left.
I told myself all the way down the hall that the tears stinging my eyes were foolish, that Mr. Geohagan hadn’t meant to hurt my feelings, that I was just super sensitive right now. And while I knew I was right, I still had to blink like crazy to keep tears from spilling over and streaming down my cheeks.
If I didn’t count stray tears, which I didn’t, I hadn’t cried about Clarke yet. I knew that when I did, it wouldn’t be a pretty sight. My skin gets blotchy and my nose turns red. My face scrunches up in a pathetic mask. If and when I cried, I’d better be alone.
In the lobby I picked up the last copy of the morning’s Intelligencer Journal. I looked at the front page as much to protect my wobbling self-control as to see what was going on in the world. A supremely confident Adam Hurlbert, the perfect candidate, smiled at me from under an astonishing headline that read:
ACCUSATIONS HURLED AT HURLBERT
Would-Be Senator Cited for Tax Evasion
21
I read the article with the byline of Barnum Hadley in disbelief.
Adam Hurlbert, Pennsylvania’s front-running candidate for the United States Senate, has been accused of tax-evasion.
The Intelligencer Journal has turned over to police evidence uncovered by this reporter that documents these charges.
Included in the evidence is a record of Hurlbert’s personal expenses for the years 1990–2006. The record clearly shows Hurlbert spending money far in excess of his declared income for these same years. Receipts for many extravagant purchases, such as vacation villas, furniture, and jewelry, even a yacht—“the tip of the iceberg,” says an unidentified source—are included as proof of the charges.
