The Amish Widower

by Virginia Smith

  Her hand rose, and she rubbed a finger down the scar on her cheek.

  I closed my eyes to hide from the agony on her face. Against my will, my mind conjured the scene. What kind of man would harm two young girls? Would attack them and cut them? Sickened, I opened my eyes to find Leah’s gaze focused on me.

  “At least I stopped him from hurting Moriah. He cut me and was about to do it again when she hit him from behind with a log.” Her lips twisted into a smirk. “That knocked him out. We left him on the ground and took his car to the hospital. Neither of us had much familiarity with driving, but Moriah had done it once during her brother’s rumspringa, so she managed to get us away from there. I was bleeding too badly. He’d driven us way out in the country, so it took a while to figure out where we were.”

  “Did the police find him?” Dumb question. Of course they did. How else would he be in prison?

  She nodded. “The hospital called them, and Moriah described where we left him. He wasn’t there anymore, but they found him not far away.”

  We had walked all the way to the ceramic shop. The sun had truly set by then, and darkness cloaked the familiar building.

  Leah stopped at the entrance to the empty parking lot, and her shoulders heaved with a silent laugh. “Looks like long walks are the thing to do when you’re upset about something. You yesterday and me tonight.”

  “If only walking would lead us away from the things that trouble us.”

  “If only,” she echoed. “But some things can never be left behind.”

  The words from a dozen sermons rose to mind. “And yet our Lord would have us live peaceful lives.”

  The look she gave me could have pierced metal. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Her nose curled. “Peaceful lives. How very Amish of you.”

  I could have taken offense at her sneering tone but chose to answer mildly. “I am Amish, as you know.”

  She planted her hands on her hips, anger showing in her glare. “Do you think Moriah and I should have let that animal attack us without a struggle? That’s what the Amish are all about, aren’t they? Turning the other cheek. Nonresistance and all that.”

  The fire with which she spat the words took me by surprise. In the next instant, I realized I should not have been. Another reason for Leah’s ongoing bitterness became clear.

  “Is that what your district said?” I asked.

  “Of course not. Most everyone didn’t speak of the incident at all. Like, if they ignored it, it never happened.” Her chin shot upward, defiance clear on her face. “I refused to let them ignore me. The bishop and the ministers said I had to forgive him, the man who attacked us.” She barked an unpleasant laugh. “Not only that, they advised me not to testify in court about what he had done, and said instead I should pray for him every day.”

  So that was her sin, the one about which she was unrepentant. She had refused to forgive her attacker, which was one of the basic tenets of our faith. Did not the Lord Himself say if we refuse to forgive another, we will not be forgiven either?

  “You went to court anyway.”

  “Of course I did. I’m glad too. If I hadn’t, he would have hurt other girls, and they might not be as fortunate to get away from him as Moriah and I were.” Her jaw tightened, and her eyes hardened. “He ruined my life, and I hate him. I will not stand by and do nothing while he gets out on parole, either. I want him to stay in prison where he belongs.”

  She looked fierce, and yet I saw her chin quiver. The vulnerable young woman was still there, hiding beneath the angry facade, desperately fighting the pain that had been inflicted on her. Could she not see what was so clear to me? That the hatred to which she clung was hurting her even worse than the attack?

  Without speaking, we turned toward Elias’s house and began the trek back. Leah walked with a quick, determined step, seemingly as eager to be done with this conversation as I was.

  A question still remained unanswered. If I didn’t ask it now, I might never find her in a mood to talk about her traumatic past again.

  “What of Moriah? Did she go to court with you?”

  Scorn gave an acid edge to her tone. “Of course not. She obeyed the bishop like a good little Amish girl. She forgave our attacker. Then she went to the classes and was baptized a few months later.” Her gaze slid sideways to meet mine for a moment. “When I went Englisch, Moriah even came on one of the visits to try to convince me to come home. Wrote letters too. In fact, she’s still writing letters. Last month she told me she had corresponded with him—” The venom in her voice left no doubt as to who she meant. “—and told him she had forgiven him long ago. She urged me to do the same. And then do you know what she did?” I was not given a chance to answer. “She told him to write to me!”

  The source of the upsetting letter she received last week became clear. “She gave him your address?”

  Anger gave her feet speed, and though my legs were longer, I almost had to trot to keep pace with her.

  “No, she’s not that stupid. He sent a letter to the victim advocate office, and they forwarded it. They put his name on the return address, which is how I knew to tear it up without reading it. That’s another reason I’m going to Ohio. I want to make sure they never send me anything from him again.”

  She could not even read a letter from her attacker, and yet she would face him in a hearing? And alone?

  I asked my question as gently as I could. “Are you sure it is wise to go to this hearing?”

  She looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. “I’m not going to the hearing. I never want to lay eyes on that animal again. Besides, the hearing isn’t until next month. The victim advocate’s office is going to arrange for me to meet with the parole board on Friday. I can give them my opinion in advance.”

  I didn’t point out that she could probably accomplish both goals over the phone or by writing a letter. No doubt Elias had already tried to convince her not to go and failed.

  We didn’t speak again until we reached Elias’s house. When I would have gone inside, she stopped me.

  “Listen, I’m sorry if I offended you with my comments about the Amish.” She hung her head. “I guess I figured you’d understand after all the stuff that happened with Robbie yesterday.”

  The words pierced my ears like darts. Yes, our situations were similar, but to liken Robbie to the horrible man who had inflicted such cruelty on two helpless teenagers felt…wrong. I wasn’t prepared to defend Robbie, but the comparison jarred me.

  “I-I was not offended,” I managed to reply. “I am honored you trust me enough to speak your mind.”

  A smile softened her eyes. “I do trust you, Seth. Thank you for understanding.”

  When she went inside, I hung back. I needed a moment to clear my thoughts. Were we alike, Leah and I? Though our situations were different, we shared the experience of a traumatic past. Was she, too, suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder? Sam would probably say yes. She’d spoken before of seeing many counselors, who had no doubt told her the same thing. But we had followed different paths as a result of the devastation that occurred to us. She chose to reject her faith, the very thing that could provide the peace God promised those who followed Him. While I had chosen to stay, to embrace the hope afforded by serving God through our Plain lifestyle.

  Or had I?

  TWENTY-TWO

  Leah came to the shop on Thursday long enough to show Elias and me how to complete the daily bank deposit. She looked very Englisch today, with her hair once again hanging loose, and wearing jeans and a T-shirt. The atmosphere between us was strained. I knew the fault lay with me, and more than once I saw her watching me with unspoken questions in her eyes. We had confided in one another, and that should have drawn us closer. Instead, I had tossed most of the night on my bed, unable to sleep, plagued by questions I didn’t want to answer.

  Would unforgiveness eat at my soul until one day I, too, became bitter and sour? Was I already that way and didn’t recognize the
fact? Were the uncontrollable fits of rage a result of unforgiveness or PTSD—or maybe both?

  More than that, my feelings for Leah could no longer be denied. She had opened her life to me and shared a pain I knew she shared with few. I ached for her and wanted her to be happy. Not just that, but I longed to be the one to restore her happiness. To be the cause of her happiness.

  When I courted Rachel, I had experienced all of the giddy, palm-sweating emotions of youthful love. Then I met Hannah, and our love had a dreamlike quality. To think that someone so beautiful and kind wanted to share a life with me was almost more than I could believe. My grief over losing Rachel lay like an open wound in my soul, and Gott had sent Hannah to heal me. How could I not be grateful? I’d been granted another chance at life.

  I felt neither of those things for Leah. Our relationship had nothing to do with physical attraction, though I had no doubt if I let my guard down for an instant, that aspect would come. Through the night, whenever my eyes closed, I envisioned a different aspect of the woman I’d come to know over the past few months. I pictured Leah scornful and smirking. Soft and smiling. Blue eyes dark as rain clouds, telling me how her district would not eat with her. Thoughtful after she read my letter to Laura King. Angry on my behalf when I told her of Robbie’s confession. The multiple facets of Leah haunted me through the long night.

  Never before had anyone opened their soul to me as she had done. What she revealed to me was painful. She’d shown me a heart every bit as tormented as my own. And never before had anyone understood me so thoroughly. If she were Amish…

  That if lay at the foundation of my distress. If Leah were Amish, I could love her. And if I did, she would die, as the others I loved had done.

  All of that I tried to put out of my mind while she showed us where she kept the banking ledger.

  When she felt that we had been thoroughly trained—which came near to offending me, as though she thought me too dim-witted to fill out a bank deposit slip—she picked up her car keys from the counter.

  “I’ll be back on Sunday. If you have any questions in the meantime, call my cell. Leave a message if I don’t answer, and I’ll call you back.”

  “Ya, we will.” Elias wore his concern for his granddaughter heavily this morning. From the redness of his eyes, I assumed he had not slept much either. “You will call here when you get to Youngstown, so we know you are safe?”

  She gave him a tender smile. “Don’t worry, Daadi. It’s less than five hours’ drive. I’ll be fine.”

  He fidgeted with the waistband of his trousers, his deep frown giving him an older appearance than I’d yet seen. “You are sure you will not stay with Amos and Beulah? They would be happy to have you.”

  Now she rolled her eyes upward, but the kind smile remained in place. “Sugarcreek is almost a hundred miles from Youngstown. Besides, I don’t want to cause them any trouble. If I stay with them, you know how the rest of the family will act.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand to stop him. “I made a reservation at a nice hotel, very safe and secure. And yes, I will call when I get there.”

  She wrapped him in a hug, and I heard her whisper, “Ich liebe dich, Daadi.”

  The endearment, especially uttered in Pennsylvania Dutch, moved me nearly as much as it did Elias. He returned her embrace, which was unusual in front of an outsider. Either his concern for his kinskind was so powerful that he did not care that I saw, or he had accepted me as part of his family. Either way, my vision blurred, and I turned away, blinking hard to clear my eyes.

  Then she stood before me. For one horrifying moment, I thought she might embrace me as well.

  “Would you walk with me to the car, Seth? There’s something I’d like to ask you.”

  What could I do but nod and follow her outside?

  We reached her car, but instead of opening the door, she turned and leaned against it, her gaze searching my face.

  “I made you mad last night with my jabs at the Amish, didn’t I?”

  I shook my head and hurried to say, “No, you did not.”

  Her head tilted sideways. “Then why are you so distant today? You’ve barely looked at me all morning.”

  What could I say? Thoughts of you robbed me of sleep all night. That would be the truth. Instead, I rubbed at my eyes. “I am sorry. I didn’t sleep well.” Or at all.

  For a moment she studied me. Then she heaved a breathy laugh. “Neither did I. We talked about some pretty heavy stuff, huh?”

  With that I could heartily agree. “Ya, some heavy stuff.”

  Her gaze traveled to the store behind me. “I’m glad they have you, Seth. Watch out for them while I’m gone, okay?”

  With a solemn nod, I said, “I will.”

  She turned and opened the car door but then paused. Eyes lowered, she said, “Say a prayer for me, would you? I have a feeling this isn’t going to be easy.”

  At the sight of her bowed head, her hair falling forward to hide her face, something in my chest twisted. The urge to pull her into an embrace, much as she had just done to Elias, was so strong I fought to keep my arms at my sides.

  “Ya,” I promised. “I will pray for you.”

  The flash of a smile was the only response I received. Then she slid into the car and shut the door.

  I didn’t move until her car had driven out of sight.

  Without Leah, a pall hung over the shop. Though she called several times to assure us that she was safe and well, Elias continued to wear a worried frown and worked in silence. He turned out piece after piece, beautifully crafted tableware that I fired and glazed in a variety of hues. When she returned, Leah would be thrilled with the amount of new stock for our shelves.

  When she returned…

  I managed the showroom, talked with the customers, dusted the shelves, handled the sales, and tried not to think about Leah’s return on Sunday. Though I missed her, in a way her absence relieved me. I hadn’t realized how often I spoke with her during the day, or how I looked forward to the curtain parting and her peeking through to see how our work progressed. How I gauged her mood by her hair and her expression, and how her attitude affected my own. The realization disturbed me. An Amish man should not be so preoccupied with an Englisch girl.

  Nor could I banish thoughts of Robbie. Whenever I absently tried to use my right hand or bumped it against the counter, anger burned in my chest. Thoughts of his deceit obsessed me, and when I became aware of my own scowl, I was reminded again of Leah.

  The circling of thoughts such as those could drive a man crazy.

  That Sunday was not a church day. At the breakfast table, I told Elias and Lily, “I am going to visit my family today. I might be late, so don’t hold dinner for me.”

  Lily paused in the act of removing an empty platter from the table. “Leah will be home by then. I am cooking her favorite. Chicken and dumplings.”

  Elias, whose mood was much improved today with Leah’s impending return, spoke in something close to his cheerful self. “You’ve never tasted anything like my Lily’s chicken and dumplings.”

  Laughing, I told her, “If I am not back, will you save a dumpling or two for me?”

  When she promised, I excused myself from the table to hitch Orion to the buggy.

  The drive to Upper Leacock was not a pleasant one. Though I had prayed much of the night, I could find no peace concerning my feelings for Leah or the anger that continued to plague me over Robbie’s actions and subsequent betrayal. Die Bibel urged me to forgive. Our Confession of Faith instructed us to “bring forth fruits meet for repentance” because it is only through repentance and forgiveness that a man will find God’s peace. I knew the command and the reason for it. But how could I conquer feelings over which I had no control?

  Instead of going to my family’s house, I steered Orion to another farm. When I spied Bishop Beiler’s buggy parked in front of his barn, I breathed a relieved sigh. Because it was not a church Sunday, he was home. I left Orion near the barn and
approached the house. Before my foot touched the porch step, the door opened.

  “Seth!” The bishop greeted me with a wide smile. “Welcome. Come inside.” He turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. “Sarah, Seth Hostetler is here. Have we something to offer him?”

  Sarah appeared at his side holding their young grandson on her hip, while another child hugged her leg. She also beamed at me. “Ya, I have cinnamon cake and will make coffee.”

  Manners dictated that I should accept the offer of hospitality, but my stomach churned with the reason for my visit. I held up a hand. “Danke, but I ate a large breakfast.” I peered at the bishop. “I do not wish to intrude on your Sunday, but I would like to talk with you.”

  “It is no intrusion.” With a glance at his wife, who nodded and retreated into the house, he stepped outside. “The weather is nice. We can sit outside where it is quiet, ya?”

  I followed him around the side of the house, where two benches sat angled in the grass, surrounded by a garden blooming with flowers. A bird feeder hung from a post nearby, swaying gently from the activity of a pair of feasting robins. The bishop gestured for me to sit on one of the benches, and he took the other.

  “What have you done to your hand?” He nodded toward the splint.

  “I broke it.” I did not elaborate. Now that we sat face-to-face, nerves threatened to rob me of words. How should I begin? “I will not keep you long from your family.”

  He waved a hand in dismissal. “I have plenty of time for those who want to talk to their bishop.”

  “I am no longer in your district,” I reminded him.

  “I have known you since you were born, Seth. You will always be a sheep of my flock no matter where you live.” He rested an arm across the back of his bench. “Have you done as I requested and called the Mennonite counselor?”

  My lips tightened at the mention of Sam, the unethical counselor. “I have met with him twice. That is partly why I am here. He is not a gut therapist.”