“I’m doing the best I can.” Daniel nudged him toward the front door. Outside, the sun shone over the farm where snowdrifts had melted into small piles. The sun’s brightness and warmth eased the acrimony.
Aiden forced a tight smile while he and Daniel roamed around the front yard. Wedding guests chatting with each other—relatives and friends Daniel probably hadn’t seen in years—nodded and smiled as they passed. Aiden wondered what they might be thinking, especially those who knew him to be the outsider who had attempted to dig up dirt on Kyle Yoder’s alleged suicide. Any one of them might’ve been the one who’d left him those two threatening messages and thrown a pumpkin at his old bungalow. Who was friend or foe? Mightily as he tried, he was unable to shake the irritability.
Suddenly, Aiden wanted to get away. Squinting, he looked up at Daniel. “I think I’ll wander over and watch the horses in the field,” he said. “I’ll bump into you later, I guess.”
“A second ago you were complaining I wasn’t spending any time with you. Now you want to run off?”
“You want to mingle,” Aiden said. “You should go and catch up with your friends and relatives. I’m in the way. You don’t want to go up to them with me around, I can tell.”
“Aiden, it’s not like that. You know how it is,” Daniel said. “Please, don’t be so sensitive.”
“I’m okay, really. Now go visit with everyone. I’ll see you later.”
He left Daniel standing by the mailbox and ambled over to the wooden fence that bordered the dormant oat field. With one foot propped on the fence, he watched the horses nibble on hay. An armful of children building a snowman from one of the remaining snow piles eyed him. He grinned at the children before they went back to their game, but his smile faded when it failed to release those good sensations smiles were supposed to.
A ruckus from the side of the house stole his attention. Mark’s friends were carrying him by his arms and legs toward the oat field. Mark laughed and mildly protested. Aiden stepped back, away from the circle of people who had followed them out of the house. Laughing, his friends stepped to the fence and, with one heave, dumped Mark over the side. The crowd cheered. Mark stood and wiped the wet straw from his pants. Nimbly, he hopped back over the fence.
“Now I’m officially grown up, ya?” he said to the cheering crowd.
Next Heidi and her two bridesmaids hollered for everyone to gather around Rachel’s fallow garden. From the fence, Aiden watched a woman lay down a straw broom and Heidi step over it with the guest’s jubilant approval. Aiden had never seen such traditions and had no idea what any of it meant. His ignorance only reinforced that he was an outsider.
Once the crowd dispersed, Aiden stayed behind, sulking by the fence. The barn looked inviting. Animals, always good companions, were much kinder than people. He made his way to the barn, looking forward to seeing the miniature horses, mules, and the guests’ stabled horses.
He nearly ran into Reverend Yoder, who stood smoking a pipe by the small windmill, away from the others. Too late to avert his eyes—the reverend had already spotted him. They were close enough to speak to one another. Forcing a smile, Aiden said, “How are you, Reverend?”
Reverend Yoder sucked on his pipe and visibly inhaled. “I’m goot, and you?”
“Fine, thanks. Very nice service today.”
“Danke.” He blew out a cloud of white smoke. Aiden was surprised when he spoke more. “It’s always nice to see our young people marry,” he said, watching the nimbus of smoke disappear into the blue sky. “Especially when they’re clearly so right for each other.”
“Yes, sir, they do make a nice couple.” Like him and Daniel, he wanted to add, almost defiantly. Keeping his cool, he reminded himself that this was Mark’s wedding. No place to confront the man whom he suspected had murdered his son nine years ago.
He still had little doubt Reverend Yoder was responsible. He had no concrete facts to support his hypothesis. Still, his initial suspicions never wavered, not even a little bit. Based on the physical evidence at the scene and the condition of Kyle’s body, it was impossible the teenager could have committed suicide. Unless he was made of rubber or stood fifteen feet tall. No one could hang himself from the highest rafter of a barn the way Kyle had been found. Someone must’ve killed him, then hanged him in the barn, like a side of beef. The reverend had been the first to find his body. And he also had a motive.
All arrows pointed to Reverend Yoder, the imposing minister with the cutting blue eyes, standing before Aiden now, sucking on a pipe and staring into the warm winter sun as if he were as innocent as the sparrows pecking at the seeds under the birdfeeder in the front yard.
Oddly, the reverend had to have known about Aiden’s investigation last year while he’d worked for The Henry Blade. Everyone knew. Surely Reverend Yoder, who kept watch over the flock like a hawk, had been aware of what was going on. Even Daniel had once warned Aiden the ministers might want to speak with him about his snooping into the community’s affairs.
Yet, even stranger, the reverend had not even a nervous twitch. He would have to be evil to not care about having done something as horribly malicious as killing his own son, even if by accident. Nagging uncertainties aside, Aiden found the reverend more engaging than anyone else had been thus far. Desperate for human interaction, he wanted to keep the reverend talking. Maybe he might even get him to slip up and utter something self-incriminating. After a moment of silent contemplation, courage filled him.
“Nice that the weather cooperated for the wedding,” Aiden dared to say. To Aiden’s surprise, the minister turned to him with a wide grin, his pipe clenched between big white teeth. Somehow he managed to keep his piercing blue eyes away from Aiden. Whether he turned his gaze upward, downward, or sideways, his eyes somehow managed to avoid direct contact.
“Ya, it is indeed a moment when we can realize God is smiling upon us,” Reverend Yoder said, turning his face back to the sun.
Following his gaze, Aiden said, “God created something amazing when he came up with the sun.”
“Ya, that He has,” the reverend said.
“The way we circle around it so fast,” Aiden said. “It’s hard to imagine sometimes.”
Instead of an agreeing nod and warm smile like before, the minister shot Aiden a harsh glare, his icy blues meeting Aiden’s eyes for the first time.
“Circle the sun?” Reverend Yoder said.
“Well, yes….”
“The earth does not circle the sun, my young English friend. It is the sun that circles the earth.” The minster puffed at his pipe and, without any further words, left for the house.
A jolt of realization struck Aiden as he stood alone by the windmill and watched the reverend stomp through the soggy grass and up the stone footpath. He understood what an ultra-orthodox world Daniel had come from. Although he was certain most of the Amish believed the earth circled the sun, as did Daniel, they still held on to staunch Biblical teachings that would be impossible for Aiden to live by, whether or not he believed in God.
Then and there, Aiden realized he and Daniel living together freely in that world would be impossible, not if they wanted to remain a couple. There was much he liked about Amish culture too… the subsistence lifestyle, the old-fashioned ways, the dedication to family and community.
But the differences left gaping potholes.
And what about Daniel? How lengthy were his roots implanted in his Amish world? Were they too strong for even Aiden to yank him free?
Chapter Eight
“IT’S TIME for slap-a-pig,” shouted a man after everyone had consumed the afternoon meal and most of the older guests, including the ministers, had left the reception.
Some of the men waved their hands in front of their faces and backed off, flushing and grinning. Others seemed eager and made their way for the sitting room, where the fun was to take place.
Aiden, standing in the hallway next to Daniel, looked up at him. “What in the world is slap-a-pig?”
Shrugging, Daniel said, “It’s a game we Illinois Amish sometimes play at weddings. You probably won’t like it much.”
“Why? How does the game go?”
Mark, who had been standing behind them, cut in and explained the rules to Aiden. “Someone is blindfolded and then bent over a chair. Another person is chosen to swat his backside. The person who got swatted then has to figure out who did it. They ask ‘Veir’ar es?’, ‘Who was it?’ and try to figure it out. If he gets it right, the person who did the swatting takes a turn over the chair. If he guesses wrong, he has to do it all over again. Sometimes the person never gets it right, and his rump is smacked raw.”
“Why’s the game called slap-a-pig?” Aiden asked, his head filling with trepidation.
“Farmers slap pigs to get them moving from place to place,” Mark said. “They use leather pig slappers, but we use our bare hands for this game, so don’t you worry.” He chuckled and joined the growing throng of men and boys, and a few women and girls, who blushed and giggled with their hands over their mouths. They scooted aside benches and tables. A young man dragged a ladder-back chair to the center of the room.
Aiden backed away. But Daniel could not escape. Hands came at him from every direction and grabbed him.
“Come on,” one man said. “We played at your wedding. Don’t you remember, Daniel?”
Flushing and grinning, Daniel peeled his friends’ hands off him. “I don’t want to play this shussly game.” But Daniel’s protests were to no avail. He was scooted next to a group of men who stared at the ominous lone chair in the middle of the room with large grins. Aiden hesitantly followed and stood next to Daniel.
“Who goes first?” someone asked.
“The groom always goes first,” a voice from the crowd shouted.
Objecting lightheartedly, Mark let his friends drag him to the chair. Choking back laughs, they tied a blindfold over his eyes and placed him in position: hands on backrest, knees on seat, butt in air.
With everyone hushed, the first man chosen to slap Mark’s behind stepped up to the chair. Brandishing his large hand to the chuckling crowd, he wound up his arm as if he were about to pitch a baseball and whacked Mark hard against his rear. Mark wailed, followed by the room breaking out into harmonious laughter. Rubbing his backside, he untied the blindfold and looked around with a sneer.
“Veir’ar es?”
He picked a man, but he was the incorrect one. Laughing, his friends repeated the steps from before, blindfolding him and getting him into position over the chair.
Another man stepped up, large and muscular. The bystanders muffled their thrill. The brawny man whacked Mark harder than the first one, as Mark’s robust squeal of pain proved. A wave of giggles rippled throughout the room. He stripped off the blindfold and peered around, this time looking genuinely annoyed.
“Veir’ar es?” he grunted.
To the delight of the bystanders, he again chose the wrong culprit—Daniel. Not a bad guess, considering Daniel and the man who had whacked Mark were about the same stature.
“Sorry,” Daniel said with a shrug.
“This is my last turn,” Mark said defiantly while his friends placed him in position. “I don’t care if I pick wrong or not.”
“The game doesn’t go like that,” one of his friends said, chuckling.
“Now he knows what a wayward pig feels like,” another said. A round of hearty guffaws broke loose.
Aiden watched the game unfold. Whether they were Amish or English, weddings seemed the same. From his observations at the weddings he’d attended, they brought out a strange sexual ambiguity among males. Apparently the Amish were no different.
He theorized that since weddings were, in a sense, a celebration and affirmation of heterosexuality, homoeroticism was displayed with less inhibition or censure. At one friend’s wedding, he recalled another homoerotic reception game that involved a blindfold and a chair. The groom, blindfolded and seated in a chair in the center of the room, was told he had to put the garter on his new wife, using only his mouth. But, to the delight of everyone, with the groom’s eyes concealed, his crafty friends switched the wife with one of their male buddies. When the groom took off his blindfold to discover who was wearing the garter, he was surprised but relieved that the unusually hairy and bulky leg belonged to, not his new wife, but one of his male friends.
Once at his sister’s wedding, when he was nineteen, he had stood agape alongside a group of women watching the best man and a male friend kiss fully on the lips, while the women cheered them on. Some of the more gregarious women had shouted, “Use your tongues! Use your tongues!” and the two buddies, their arms wrapped firmly around each other, had obliged.
He had experienced this often at the weddings he’d been to. Straight men would ask him to dance, and often they’d get frisky, begging for a kiss in front of everyone, drunk or not. He doubted the Amish would go that far. Nonetheless, the same, almost unintentional, sexual games seemed to prevail. Homoeroticism bubbled up as naturally at wedding receptions as geysers at Yellowstone. Heavy amounts of alcohol consumption during the more traditional American wedding receptions never hurt.
The room quieted. This time, David took a turn at swatting his brother’s behind. He glanced around impishly and, scrunching his face, tried to whack Mark as hard as the two men before him. David scurried next to one of the taller men and waited for Mark to make his choice. Like the other two times, Mark failed to pick the correct culprit. He chose another boy about David’s age. When the crowd identified David, Mark, obviously in pain at this point, warned his younger brother with a smirk and finger pointing he would seek revenge.
Blindfolded and bent back over the chair, Mark insisted whoever was to strike next get it over with. Heidi, who had been enjoying the game along with the others, took Aiden by the arm and silently nudged him toward Mark. Her blue eyes brimmed with mischief. Aiden held back and looked to Daniel for help. Daniel merely shrugged.
With the urging of the crowd, Aiden gave in to Heidi’s light pushing. Blood rushed to his cheeks. Embarrassed, he stood before Mark, trying to keep from staring at his backside. Inhaling deeply, he looked away and gave Mark a halfhearted slap. He backed off quickly and stood next to Daniel.
Seconds after taking off the blindfold, Mark guessed right.
“I figured Aiden would be the most hesitant to lay one on me,” Mark said, laughing and pointing. “Besides, he’s redder than a beet.”
Aiden did not fully understand what was happening until he found himself steered to the center of the room. In an instant, he remembered the rules. Whoever was identified correctly had to take a turn at the chair.
Blood seared his cheeks. He begged to abstain. The crowd heard nothing of his lamenting. A series of “uh-ohs” further shook his nerves. What exactly would they do to him? He prayed they’d go easy on him. Would they strike him extra hard for his being an Englisher? Would they take out their frustrations on him for his butting into the Kyle Yoder affair, or any other host of reasons they might have against him?
Someone wielded the blindfold, and despite Aiden’s protests, the man tied the bandana snugly around his eyes, near covering his entire face. Darkness engulfed him. He adjusted the mothball-smelling bandana, moist with Mark’s perspiration, to breathe more easily.
A set of hands turned him around and manipulated him onto the wooden chair. An adolescent boy with a cackling voice instructed him to kneel over the chair. “Now grab onto the back and stay put.”
The hands left him, and he underwent a sudden sensation of freefalling. Disoriented, he grabbed more firmly onto the chair’s back to brace himself. He grimaced for what was to come. How ridiculous must he look with his butt jutting out at a party of Amish people? He wanted to cry and laugh at the same time. The room quieted. A serious air surrounded him. Whispers floated around his barely exposed ears. People were giggling and hushing each other. They were deciding who would be the first to strike.
&nb
sp; The moment Aiden relaxed, wondering if they would ever pick someone, he jerked from the heated blow.
Whack!
A wobbly moan came out of his mouth instead of the chortle he had planned. Hearty laughter reverberated around him. He rubbed his behind, burning as if it had been dragged across hot cement.
“Now you have to take off your blindfold and ask ‘Veir’ar es?’” he heard Mark jovially instruct him from somewhere in the crowd.
With both sets of cheeks burning now, he peeled off the blindfold and, shaky and uncertain, faced the chortling crowd. He looked at the contorted and flushing faces around him, male and female. His smile must’ve looked branded onto his face. He had no idea who might’ve swatted him. He was certain he’d be bent over that hard wooden chair for the rest of the afternoon, until the seat of his pants smoldered like embers.
“Umm… well… veir’ar es?”
His first utterance caused a small outbreak of guffaws. He strived to judge who had struck him by studying everyone’s faces. Intent now, he scanned the room, peering into each person’s eyes, watchful of any clues. Which one had the guiltiest look?
Daniel? But Daniel always looked guilty. Especially lately. Besides, he was well familiar with Daniel’s butt slaps. He often slapped Aiden during their lovemaking. This slap had not been one of his.
But the more he scrutinized Daniel, the more he realized his expression was a bit different. He looked… jealous. Yes, Daniel was jealous. Jealous that another man had swatted Aiden’s behind.
He noticed Daniel shoot a piercing glance at a handsome man standing by the window, his hands deep in his pockets. He was Heidi’s burly cousin from Texas. His face was drawn with forced gravity, his head turned askew, as if he were doing his best to avoid eye contact with anyone, particularly Aiden. Body language never lied, Aiden told himself.
Lifting his head with a boastful grin, he pointed a finger at the man and declared, “You, you slapped me!”
“How did you know?” Heidi screamed. A few men approached Aiden and patted his back. They expressed their admiration that an Englisher could play the game as well as any Amish man. He had been one of the few who’d ever guessed right the first try.
Between Two Promises Page 8
