Snowbirds

by Crissa Chappell

  I remember the crowd leaving the beach. The Old Order girls in their long dresses and bonnets. The red and blue lights fanning across the sand.

  The Showalters found Alice’s cell phone on Lido Key. Broken. How did it end up on the beach? And what about the money inside that plastic bag? All those bills, rolled tight.

  “You stole Alice’s cell phone.”

  He takes another gulp of beer. “I gave her the damn thing. And then she goes and breaks it.”

  “Did you steal her money?”

  “Alice’s money? We were supposed to go to the bus station in the morning. Alice had this stupid idea about going to California. She was going to be in the movies or something. I mean, this girl had no concept of reality. There wasn’t enough money to get out of Florida, much less California.”

  “But you took it anyway. And then you walked back to the empty lot in Pinecraft.”

  His eyes widen. “How did you know that?”

  I stare at his sneakers dangling over the edge of the bed.

  “Whatever,” he says, wiping his mouth on his T-shirt. “Alice ditched me. I went back there, trying to find her.”

  “You weren’t trying to find Alice.”

  He squirms. “I was looking for her.”

  “You were looking for the rest of her money.”

  Tobias swings back his arm and I flinch. For a second, I think he’s going to hit me. Then he slowly lowers his fist. He glances at the bathroom door. The shower is gurgling away. I need to keep pushing for answers before Faron comes back.

  “You were talking to a lot of girls online,” I say. “You lied to them. And you took their money. Did Alice mean anything to you at all?”

  “You know what?” he says. “I don’t even care.”

  “Please. Just tell me if she’s okay.” I’m shouting now. Begging him to tell the truth. But Tobias won’t look at me.

  The bathroom door swings open. Faron steps out in a haze of sweet-smelling steam. When he sinks onto the bed, Tobias moves away, like he’s afraid of sitting too close. He pulls another beer out of the six-pack.

  One more beer turns into two.

  Then three.

  Tobias curls up on the floor like a little kid, the empty bottles scattered around his head.

  He won’t be talking anymore tonight.

  “Did you get anything out of him?” Faron whispers.

  I’m holding back tears. “He doesn’t know where she is.”

  “You think he’s lying?”

  “I don’t know. He stole Alice’s money. But he didn’t find all of it. She must’ve hid the rest. That’s why he went back to the empty lot after the party. He was trying to find it.”

  “Alice did the right thing.”

  “She was probably hiding it from her mom, too,” I say, remembering how Mrs. Yoder wouldn’t let Alice keep her money from the craft fair.

  “Where’s her mom now?” he asks.

  “Mrs. Yoder didn’t stay in Pinecraft. She went back to Maine.”

  “Do you know which town?”

  In my mind I see Alice’s letters. The old-fashioned handwriting in the top left corner. Never a complete address. Just the name of a post office.

  Smyrna, Maine.

  Faron nods. “That’s what I thought,” he says.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m from there, too.”

  “You’re from Smyrna?”

  “We’re from the same Ordnung,” he says, meaning the bishop’s rules you’ve got to follow. “There’s a lot of Amish up in the mountains.”

  “How far is that from here?” I ask.

  “About a couple hundred miles north. If we’re going to make it, we need to get on the road early tomorrow.”

  “You’re still going back home,” I say quietly.

  He closes his eyes. “Don’t have a choice,” he says. “But I made a promise to you, Lucy. We’re going to keep looking for your friend.”

  The TV brightens and dims, throwing shadows above the bed. I stay awake a long time before falling asleep, thinking about what Tobias said. Did he even care about Alice at all?

  The morning sun dribbles through the blinds.

  I glance at the empty bottles on the floor.

  Tobias is gone.

  chapter twenty-four

  tides and currents

  His blanket is rolled like a snail in a corner of the room. It smells so gross, I don’t want to touch it. Empty bottles are tipped on the carpet. The TV has switched to cartoons—a mouse smacking a cat with a frying pan.

  “He can’t be too far,” says Faron. “We could drive back to the cannery. He’s got to show up for work.”

  I shake my head. There’s only one place left to go. Somewhere I’ve only heard about but never seen. A cold place up in the mountains. When I try to imagine it, I shiver.

  The widow’s home.

  “I don’t know, Lucy. You’re stirring up a lot of trouble.” He gets this far-off look, as if he’s drifting to another place. “The Old Order . . . we’re good at keeping secrets.”

  “Are you keeping secrets too?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says. “But not from you.”

  He heads for the bathroom and shuts the door.

  I’m alone again.

  How did I end up so far away from home? I stare at the painting framed above the bed. Another lighthouse. Seagulls hovering over a red-roofed cottage. A sailboat leaning into a swell of dark water.

  Did Alice have doubts about running away? Is that why she hid the money? As long as I can remember, she wanted to leave the Old Order. She told me in her letters. What happened after I left the party that night? Tobias got her drunk and stole her cash. He broke her cell phone so she couldn’t ask for help. Then he left her in the park. Alone.

  When I knock on the bathroom door, Faron is at the sink, dipping his razor under the faucet.

  “Hey.” I smile at him.

  “Hey yourself,” he says, smiling back.

  “You look different.”

  “Thanks.” Faron’s smile quickly fades. He gets back to work, shaving his upper lip, but leaves the rest alone.

  I reach into the sink and pinch a loose strand of hair. “Why aren’t you shaving it all off?”

  “Makes things easier,” he says, splashing his face.

  “What’s easier?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I know he will blend in, once we reach the Amish up in Smyrna. But there’s another reason for the beard. Something I don’t want to think about.

  “You can’t go back to the Old Order. Not after they shunned you.”

  “That’s right,” he says. “I can’t go back home. I’ll never be Amish again. Don’t want to be. But if I’m working for my dad, it’s easier this way.”

  “Easier to give in.”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing? Giving in? Lucy, you have no idea. I’ve got no choice.”

  “So it’s about making your dad happy.”

  “There’s no place where I fit in. Nowhere left to go. I’m telling you. I’ve got nothing.”

  “There’s me,” I say in a small voice.

  “Yeah, there’s you.” Faron pulls me into a hug. “The smartest girl I ever met. There’s good stuff in here,” he says, stroking my forehead. “I don’t care what your dad says. You’re going to study the ocean.”

  We hold each other for a long time. I don’t want to let go. But I know that Faron has to make his own choice.

  “Don’t you want to be free?” he says.

  “Of course I do. But how?”

  “I’ll tell you how,” he says. “You go to the library. Get on the computer. Look up that fancy school in St. Pete. Find out what it takes to go there. And trust me. You’re going to make it happen. I believe it.”

  “So I’ve got a choice and you don’t.”

  “Lucy, you’re so smart,” he says, lowering his head. “And I’m not.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s t
rue.”

  “No, it’s not. You’re just running away again.”

  “I’m done running,” he says. “Things will get better. You’ll see. If we rush ahead, we’ll just mess it up. And I’m not going to let that happen.”

  “I don’t want you to leave.”

  “It won’t change what we’ve got,” he whispers. “Me and you, we’re in this together.”

  Everything changes.

  The whole world is made of change.

  That much I know.

  “I’ll wait for you,” he says. “Fehlerfrei. Look at me.”

  I look.

  Faron’s eyes are wet. He kisses me gently. “I’ll wait.”

  We will find a way to be together. I believe it, the way I know the tide will tuck in its edges and swell again. The way I believe in snow, although I’ve never seen it, and the moon’s grip on the ocean, and us too.

  I believe with my whole heart.

  chapter twenty-five

  mittens

  It’s cold in the mountains. As we pull off the highway, we pass a yellow traffic sign with a picture of a horse and buggy: SHARE THE ROAD. Up ahead, the pavement is dotted with piles of manure like beads on a chain.

  “Welcome to Smyrna,” says Faron.

  He’s already changed back into his plain clothes. His long-sleeved cotton shirt and jeans are for Amish men who work long hours outdoors. He looks so different now. When I hear him talking in that slow, easygoing voice, it’s almost startling.

  “Do you think the Amish craft fair is still open?” I ask him.

  “It’s more of a summer thing,” he says. “In the winter, a lot of places shut down. Most people take a break and go south.”

  Yeah. I know.

  In Alice’s letters, the craft fair is a pretty big deal. Everybody gets together to eat and gossip, just like at our church picnics back home. She never mentioned anything about working during the winter. By then, she and her mom were in Florida.

  “If it’s open, maybe somebody knows Mrs. Yoder,” I say. “They might even know where she lives.”

  “Maybe,” says Faron. “But you’re forgetting something, Lucy. There’s no chance they’re going to tell us.”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  “I’m serious. They’re not going to talk to us.”

  “What are we supposed to do? Turn around and go home?”

  “No,” he says quietly. “I can’t do that.”

  He’s scared. Why didn’t I see it before? Coming back to Smyrna is like trying to cross a bridge that’s been burned. When you’re shunned, you’re already living in hell. And the Old Order will do everything it takes to remind you.

  We park the truck on the side of the road. Faron doesn’t want to bring attention to himself. I’m making it worse, just by being here. The Old Order won’t care for the way I look. Even my prayer cap is too worldly.

  “Want your coat back?” I ask Faron.

  “Nah. I’m good.”

  “You’re not cold?”

  “Never,” he says.

  My breath is steaming as we get out of the truck. “I need my own coat.”

  “True. But our money’s all gone.”

  I’m so exhausted, I can barely walk. The path winding up the hill is steep. I don’t spot any cars on the road. Only wheel tracks in the dirt. The U-shaped stamp of a horse’s hoof. A pair of mittens dangling from a tree branch, as if somebody peeled them off and disappeared into the sky.

  When I see the horses lined up in orderly rows, I get a little nervous. Dozens of buggies fill the parking lot at the Dyer Brook Amish Craft Fair. It’s like looking through a window into another time.

  So they’re here after all.

  The craft fair is inside a long, barn-shaped building. A sign tells us to REJOICE IN THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE LORD THIS AUTUMN HARVEST. I wait for a minute outside the door. Then I grab the handle and push it open.

  This place is just like the fruit stand in Pinecraft, only bigger. Not to mention, crowded. Bearded old men in dark blue shirts and suspenders are huddled in the corner, drinking coffee, while the Old Order women dart back and forth in their stiff black dresses and bonnets. The tables are loaded with fresh-baked cookies and pies, along with paperbacks about living a godly life.

  As soon as Faron walks through the door, everyone turns and looks. It’s more than the usual stares and whispers. This time, the Amish are judging us too. In Pinecraft, it was different. We were one big family. Here, it’s pretty obvious I don’t belong. And Faron?

  He’s invisible.

  I bet a lot of these people used to be his friends. Now they’re making a big deal, shoving past him in line as if he doesn’t exist. No handshakes or hellos. They just keep talking to each other like he’s not even there.

  “I’m sorry, Lucy,” he says. “I never should’ve brought you here. I knew this was going to happen.”

  I can hear the hurt in his voice. “Don’t let them treat you like that.”

  “They’re not going to talk to us.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll talk to them.”

  I make my way through the crowd. Heads turn as I push toward the long rows of tables. It’s probably even busier in the summertime. Right now, it’s mostly about food. They’ve got everything from pickled red beet eggs in jars to hunks of beef wrapped in brown paper. I don’t see many crafts. But there’s an Old Order girl in a heart-shaped bonnet selling Amish quilts. She’s humming softly. A gospel tune. Some things don’t change no matter where you go.

  When I stand next to her table, she looks up.

  “Your quilts are really beautiful.” I smile.

  “Thank you,” she mumbles.

  I’ve already made a mistake. I shouldn’t have mentioned the beauty of her quilts. Now she’s going to feel uncomfortable.

  I unfold a few more quilts from the pile. They’re all so perfect, it’s hard to believe they were stitched by hand. I gently trace their blue and yellow patterns.

  “I think this one’s called Sunshine and Shadow?” I ask.

  She blinks in surprise. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “It’s my favorite.”

  “Mine too,” she says, blushing. “Are you visiting Smyrna?” Her voice is slow and easy, like Faron’s.

  “I’m from Pinecraft.”

  “Oh, you’re from the Florida gang?” she says.

  That’s what the Old Order call the Beachy Amish-Mennonites, as if we’re all friends.

  If only that were true.

  “I’m looking for Alice Yoder. She makes quilts too. Her mom sells them here sometimes.”

  “Alice?” There’s a flicker of recognition. “No, I haven’t seen her in a long time. Not since last summer.”

  Is she lying?

  “What about Mrs. Yoder? Does she still work here?”

  “I wouldn’t go around asking questions about the widow. Most people don’t like strangers coming here, stirring up trouble. Especially if you’re with Faron Mast,” she says, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Please. My friend Alice is in a lot of trouble. I’m really scared for her.”

  The Old Order girl leans closer. “I don’t know what happened to Alice,” she says carefully. “But if you’re looking for her mother, I’d talk to John Lapp. His family’s got a store off Duck Pond Road. That’s where we sell our quilts at Christmas.”

  I follow her gaze across the room to where a tall, bearded man in glasses is drinking coffee with a group of older men.

  “Thanks,” I tell her.

  She blushes again.

  I feel like I should buy one of her quilts, but I don’t have any money left. And I have something else in mind.

  “Do you make clothes too?” I ask.

  “Yes, but I didn’t bring any dresses today.”

  “What about a coat?”

  “I might have one,” she says. “Especially for someone who came all the way from Florida. I imagine they’d be needing a winter coat.”

  What can I
give her in exchange? I reach into my tote bag. I’m not carrying much except Crystal’s purple iPod. When I slip it under the table, the girl’s smile grows bigger. Does she know how it works? If she’s a Rumspringa girl, I’d say yes.

  “You like music?” I whisper.

  She looks at me. Understands.

  Without a word, she takes off her coat and offers it to me. It’s a little small. The sleeves don’t cover my wrists. But it will keep me warm.

  “Almost forgot,” she says, tugging off her black mittens. No doubt, she knit them herself. I can’t help thinking of the pair I saw earlier, dangling from a tree branch.

  As I turn to leave, she says, “I pray the Lord brings Alice home safe.”

  The Lord always forgives.

  That’s what I’ve been taught.

  What about liars?

  Does the Lord forgive them too?

  • • •

  As I walk back through the crowd, I notice an Old Order boy staring at me. I thought the coat would help me blend in, but, so far, it’s not helping. We make eye contact and it’s like I’ve broken some unspoken rule. He glares and turns away.

  So this is what it feels like to be shunned.

  “Well, look at you,” says Faron. “You’re a proper Old Order girl now.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Does this mean I can have my coat back?” he asks.

  “Only if you’re cold.”

  “I don’t get cold,” he says, shrugging into his coat. Once again, I’m struck by how different he looks. Almost as if he never left the Old Order. Still, it makes no difference to the old men huddled in the corner.

  I stare back at the men. “Do you know them?”

  He nods. “And they know me.”

  The younger man in glasses walks across the room. He stops in front of an Old Order woman and lifts a baby from her arms.

  “What about him?” I whisper.

  “John Lapp.”

  “His family sells the Yoders’ quilts. Maybe he can help us.”

  “Don’t count on it,” says Faron. “Nobody’s going to talk to you, Lucy. They’d be putting their whole lives in danger.”

  “Why?”

  “If they speak up, it’s only asking for trouble.”

  “But why is it dangerous?”

  “They’re afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”