Gabe had been her one and only hope for love, and just ’bout the time she thought he might actually take her for a ride in his open courting buggy, the English girl from Reading had come along, filling in as a substitute teacher at the nearby one-room schoolhouse. It was Adele who’d caught Gabe’s attention back then. Hadn’t seemed fair, either.
In the early days, she remembered trying her best to appear to be “normal” for Gabe’s sake. Whatever that was she didn’t know, ’cept what she observed in the folk who were of average or higher intelligence. She remembered practicing her speaking skills, gazing into the pond just south of her father’s barn, on a day with not a stitch of a breeze in the willows that circled the shining water. There, in the water, she’d seen a slight face and gray-blue eyes staring back, framed by her white netting Kapp atop her wheat-blond hair.
She’d gone to study her reflection—since Mamma wasn’t all too happy ’bout mirror primping and such. While she knelt by the pond, she had asked herself one question after another, pretending to be her classmates, tryin’ her best to think up the answers. When she finally stod, she believed her practicing would pay off. And that summer it had, ’cause Gabe asked if she wanted to go fishing, and would she help him gather worms for some bait?
She remembered having to push answers out of her mouth quick as she could that sunshiny day. “Jah, I’ll go with ya,” she’d said, scared he’d up and change his mind. “Betcha I can dig worms faster ’n you!”
He’d taken her comment as a challenge, like most any eleven-year-old boy. So they’d spent one whole afternoon digging for fish bait, her hands wrist-deep in mud, grabbing hold of one slimy earthworm after another. ’Course, every bit of the mess and mud was worthwhile, sharin’ the day with the handsomest Amish boy on the face of God’s earth!
A slice of chocolate pie and vanilla ice cream in hand, she scurried back to Rachel. Placing the dessert in front of her, Lavina thought how blessed she was to be getting better acquainted with a woman who resembled Gabe, not only in looks, but in temperament and deed. Why, it was downright uncanny, come to think of it. And here, with talk of Blue Johnny eager to pass his powwow doctoring gift—and the evil “black box”—to someone younger, well, it made her honestly wonder ’bout family ties, generational sins, and all. The very things Rachel’s cousin Esther had been sharing with Rachel by tape. Some of the things Rachel Yoder now believed.
She touched Rachel’s shoulder gently. “Want some coffee … to go along with that second helpin’?”
Rachel smiled her thanks. “Pie’s fine for now.”
Lavina, still bending over, whispered, “Leah’s birthday song set me thinkin’….”
“Oh?”
“Tell you tomorrow … on the trip to see Adele.”
“I won’t forget,” Rachel said, finding her fork. “What ’bout the snow? Is it still comin’ down hard?”
Lavina turned to look out the window. Sure enough, the snow had begun to slow a bit. “Seems like the Lord above might be smilin’ down on us come tomorrow.”
“He blesses us every day. Snow or no snow,” Rachel replied with a nod.
Just then Annie came in carrying a picture she’d made of a snow-covered field with gray clouds overhead. Three birds in one corner of the sky. “Lookee here,” the little girl said. “I drew a wintertime picture. It’s for when Mamma can see.”
The drawing reminded Lavina again of Gabe’s third-grade artwork. Along with his homemade cards, she’d saved his drawings, too, storing them away in the hand-hewn box to be cherished all her life.
Rachel spoke up, “Jah, hang on to your drawing, Annie, dear. ’Cause I will see it someday. I truly believe I will.”
Lavina couldn’t help but smile as Annie hugged her mamma’s neck. She felt the familiar twinge of sadness for all the little ones never born to her. “Come along, now, Annie,” she said. “Did ya get yourself a slice of your aunt Leah’s choc’late pie?”
Grinning, Annie showed a missing front tooth. “Jah, I had more than one. Appeditlich—delicious!”
Like mother, like daughter, Lavina thought, now more eager than ever to share Gabe’s drawings with someone. Someone like the deceased man’s great-grandniece—Annie Yoder.
And possibly Adele Herr… .
The day had been long and arduous, filled with rewrites, interviews, and follow-ups, yet Philip sat in his apartment, gathering together the many snippets of information he’d found while in Pennsylvania. Each was directly related to Gabriel Esh’s fascinating story, one of rejection and betrayal among his own people. It was the story he had uncovered while innocently jiggling a stubborn drawer in the recesses of an antique desk in his room at the Amish guesthouse.
He smiled to himself at the myriad of notes he’d jotted down—even on a paper napkin from the Bird-in-Hand Family Restaurant. Having gone to the Lancaster County area to do research on behalf of the magazine, he’d returned home with numerous ideas and observations on the Amish culture. That uncomplicated community of the People, where respect for each other’s opinions and privacy was a daily occurrence, where a person was expected to be conscientious, civil, generous, and responsible. Where the wholesomeness of rural life abounded. Where time seemed to stand still.
Upon locating the business card from Emma’s Antique Shop, he studied the address and phone number, noting there was no fax number or email address. Emma, a young Mennonite woman, had given him the card after he’d browsed there, looking for an antique rolltop desk similar to the one at the Amish B&B. Emma had informed him that the desk was one of a kind, yet he’d hoped to find something comparable. He had searched various New York antique shops and prestigious stores in and around Columbus Avenue, near Lincoln Center, on weekends, then later in Vermont, where he and his sister and niece had gone to enjoy the autumn foliage. But he had found nothing to compare with the magnificent piece in his former guest bedroom at Benjamin and Susanna Zook’s B&B.
He felt the urge to pick up the phone and call the Bird-in-Hand antique shop to inquire as to other desks Emma may have procured recently.
Too late in the season, he decided, changing his mind. He recalled that stores in the Lancaster area, especially those catering to tourists, were often closed during the winter months.
Philip leaned back in his chair, his hands clasped behind his head. Sighing, he looked around the apartment-sized writing studio. Tall custom-made cabinets of white oak graced one full side of the room. Shelves lined with handcrafted contemporary pottery and wrought-iron art, purchased from skilled artisans, reminded him of his travels. Behind him, a silkscreen silhouette of oval leaves, pale yellow and green, set off the otherwise unadorned wall. To his right, a bank of windows allowed daylight to flood the room, and at night reflections from a thousand windows flickered across to him. Usually, he preferred to keep the designer blinds open at all hours. Tonight, however, he rose after a time and pulled the cord, blocking out the enormity of the population, noise, and vibrations of the city that surrounded him, threatening to strangle him.
Sitting down at his desk once again, he thought of Lancaster County, where farmers talked to their cows and went to bed with the chickens. A world set apart. And not so surprisingly, a place he missed more than he cared to admit.
He stared at the telephone, wondering if it was too late to make a phone call to Reading, Pennsylvania. He wanted to talk again with his new friend, Adele Herr.
Seven
For as long as she remembered, Rachel had awakened early, at the pre-rooster-crowin’ hour. Bone-chilling cold no longer greeted her first thing on a winter morning, however. Not in the toasty-warm bedroom she and Annie now shared at the Orchard Guest House B&B.
Growing up in Dat’s drafty old farmhouse was another story. There the wood floors were as cold as a frozen pond, and she’d discovered it firsthand. As a child she’d stuck out a brave big toe on more than one occasion. Quickly, she would retrieve her bare foot and slide it back under the warm quilts, all the while shivering at t
he thought of facing the morning. Pleading for one or more of her older sisters to bring her a pair of long johns—and warm socks—she waited for her requests to be granted, putting up with occasional teasing. So she dressed before actually emerging from bed, similar to the way she lived most of her youthful days, shy and retiring.
This December morning a bitter wind had blown about flakes of light snow, reminding her anew of those childhood days. She’d gotten up early as usual and bundled up for the trip to Reading, accepting the arm of their usual Mennonite driver—Calvin Witwer—who’d come for her at the door.
“It’s not snowing as much now,” he said as they made their way to the waiting van.
“Are the roads cleared off, then?”
“Plowed and sanded. Shouldn’t have any trouble getting to where you wanna go.” Calvin helped her inside the warm vehicle, and they were off to pick up Lavina.
Rachel’s thoughts ambled back to the first time she’d ever gone anyplace with her father by herself. It, too, had been a wintry day. Mid-January. She had been ’bout eight, prob’ly, and had need of some needles and thread for a practice quilt she was making with her sisters Lizzy and Mary.
“Kumm mit!” Dat had called to her, offering to stop at Beiler’s Country Market on the way to Bird-in-Hand.
“All’s I need is some sewin’ needles and thread,” she’d replied, skipping down the back porch steps to the waiting carriage.
Mamma had come to the back door, calling that it was all right to go. “Have a gut time with your pop.”
Rachel, silent as always, had realized just then that none of her sisters or brothers—or Mam—were comin’ this morning. Just her and Dat.
“Well, now, hop in, Rachel. I’ll take-a-you along.” And Dat helped her up into the enclosed gray buggy, covering her real gut with several warm lap robes.
She remembered feeling a bit more grown-up than she’d ever felt before in her young life. To think that Dat was taking her for a buggy ride to the store, and all by herself. Well, now, must he be thinkin’ his little girl was ready for such an adventure on a snowy day?
The horse had trotted slower than usual, but that didn’t seem to bother Dat. He was gentle and kind to the animal, letting the mare set her own pace. And, funniest thing, Dat talked a blue streak, never stoppin’ once to ask her a thing, though, ’cause she was just too shy to answer him. But that day, that day, she had begun to change her mind ’bout having a conversation with adults. Talkin’ with a grown-up didn’t seem all that frightening anymore.
Maybe it was the way the snow fell quietly, like a curtain ’round them, as they made their way down the long road. Or maybe it was Dat’s voice lulling her, oh so steadily, keepin’ her mind off herself for once—she didn’t know, really—but something stuck in her childish mind ’bout that wintry ride to market.
When they arrived at the little country store, already there were two buggies parked out front. The folk who shopped here, her mamma had always said, liked cookin’ from scratch, as if there was any other way. And the shop owner, Joe Beiler, seemed to know it, too. So after locating the exact sewin’ needles she wanted and three colors of fine thread, she wandered over to the dry goods section while Dat chewed the fat with Joe.
What she discovered made her eyes pop out nearly. Why, there was an amazing assortment of beans—seven kinds in all—and ten different noodles, along with six varieties of flour. All sorts of dried fruits, too, including raisins and dates. Nuts and oodles of other dry goods were on display along the long wooden counters. Things like white, brown, and confectioners’ sugar; baking powder, salt, pepper. Countless types of seasonings, grains, and cereals, too.
’Course, there were baked goods, in direct competition with Grandma Smucker’s Bakery. But that didn’t stop Joe Beiler from offering the ooey-gooiest cinnamon rolls this side of Ronks Road. And she found out just how tasty they were, thanks to Joe’s wonderful-nice wife coming over and chattin’ with Rachel.
“Well, now, lookee here at you,” the blue-eyed woman said. “You must be Ben Zook’s littlest girl.”
She hadn’t known whether to nod her head or just blink her eyes at the pudgy Mrs. Beiler.
“Cat ain’t got your tongue, has it?” she asked.
Rachel shook her head.
“I’ve got just the thing to make ya smile, girlie.” The owner’s wife motioned for Rachel to follow her. “As long as you live, you’ll never taste any sticky buns better’n Nancy Beiler’s.”
So … Rachel found out her name, and she never forgot it, ’cause that day Nancy Beiler insisted that Rachel was the “pertiest little girl” she ever did see.
“And whenever you want yourself a free samplin’ of my sweets, well, you just call me Auntie Nancy, and I’ll come a-runnin’.”
Rachel figured, without ever speakin’ a word, she’d just stumbled onto the nicest person in the whole world. And she never, ever forgot the way those sticky buns melted in her little mouth. She just never did. From that day on, Auntie Nancy kept her word ’bout the free samples, too. She even came through on the day before Rachel’s weddin’ to Jacob Yoder, too, along with every other time she stopped in to say hullo.
Every so often, Rachel thought ’bout Auntie Nancy, wonderin’ what had become of her—’cause for the past year or so, nobody ever talked of Joe’s wife. Rachel supposed it was none of her business, but still, she wondered.
“Do you ever hear tell of a Nancy Beiler over off Stumptown Road?” Rachel asked, finding her voice long enough to ask the driver.
“Last I heard, Joe quit stocking the bakery part of the store.”
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“His wife left the Old Order.”
That surprised her. She hadn’t heard of any shunning over in that area. “When was this?”
“Couple of years ago, if my memory serves me well. Mrs. Beiler went and joined the New Order Amish folk over near Gap.”
“I wish I knew where she lived,” Rachel said softly. “I miss seein’ her.”
“Well, I believe I could find out for you, if you want me to.”
She was glad to hear it and told him so, and she couldn’t help but smile ’bout that wonderful-gut first time at the country market. Just Dat and his little Rachel, on a cold and snowy January day.
When the two women were settled into the backseat, they got their offhand prattle all talked out—Lavina, in her slow, measured way; Rachel, prompting her when her mind took to wanderin’.
“You were going to tell me something today,” Rachel reminded her after a time, keeping her voice low.
Lavina was quiet for a bit before she spoke up. “I’ve been thinkin’ … ’bout Bishop Fisher. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”
“What about the bishop?”
“His eternal soul” came the unexpected reply. “But I don’t know just what to do ’bout what I’m a-thinkin’.”
“Well,” Rachel said, “what would that be?”
“I’ve been prayin’ for the old bishop.”
Rachel wasn’t afraid to admit that she was, too. “In fact, I’ve been wonderin’ when a gut time might be to talk to him, just so he doesn’t try ’n talk me into accepting Blue Johnny’s powwow gift—the transference, you know.”
Lavina was still.
Rachel whispered, “You don’t think he’d do that—try ’n force me, do you?”
After another long pause, Lavina replied, “I don’t ’spect anyone can force a body to receive a gift—holy or unholy.”
Rachel thought on that. “I’d hate to see the powwowing thing get stirred up ’round here. After what happened between Blue Johnny and me, well, I’d say a visit to the Old Order bishop would have to be intended by God, pure and simple.”
“Don’t blame you none for thinkin’ thataway.”
Lavina’s voice sounded strained.
Rachel wondered if the woman was nervous ’bout a visit to the ninety-three-year-old church leader. “You okay?”
“Don’
t s’pose I’ll be if’n I don’t follow the Lord’s biddin’ and speak to ol’ Seth Fisher … afore his next birthday. ’Tis comin’ up here real soon.”
So that’s what was bothering Lavina. She was worried the old man might die without hearin’ the truth ’bout God’s Son and soul salvation, full and free.
“Let’s not wait, then, if you feel the Lord nudgin’ you,” Rachel suggested.
“Don’t see how I could do it alone. I’m a shunned woman, ya know. Doubt Seth Fisher would give me the time o’ day.”
“I’ll go with you.” The words had flown out before she’d even had a chance to think what she was gettin’ herself into.
“Denki, Rachel. Had a feelin’ you’d see eye to eye.”
Unsure her parents would agree with any of what she and Lavina were cooking up, Rachel leaned against the seat, praying silently. Dear Lord, help me not get in over my head with all of this. Please, will you lead and guide Lavina and me? Amen.
“I declare, if that shunned woman ain’t up to somethin’, well, then I ain’t Susanna Esh Zook!” She rushed down the stairs, one frustrating thought after another tumbling in her mind.
“Not for you to be worryin’ over,” Benjamin called down from the second-floor landing, holding a wrench in his hand.
Susanna knew if she kept it up, sooner or later little Annie might put two and two together and figure out her grandparents were fussin’ over Rachel and Lavina. “We best talk this over in private,” Susanna replied, standing at the bottom of the long stairway. She would give her husband the final say.
“You’re right, Susie. We oughtn’t cause a scene in front of you-know-who,” Ben said, then he went to finish repairing the shower head in one of the guest bathrooms.
The Crossroad Page 6
