“Everything,” he says, looking over his shoulder.
A group of Old Order women slip past us. They keep their heads bowed toward the ground, almost faceless in their stiff black bonnets. I can’t imagine Alice trapped in this world. She’d do anything to escape, no matter how dangerous.
“I don’t care if they’re afraid,” I tell him. “They can’t stop me from asking questions.”
I move toward the row of tables in the back. Faron is right behind me, ignoring the stares of the bearded old men.
When John notices us, his face turns pale.
“Faron Mast. So the prodigal son returns,” he says, balancing a plate of apple fritters in one hand and a squirming baby in the other. “Your dad’s going to kick a fit.”
“Ain’t that the truth, John.”
They start talking in Deitsch. The words fly back and forth. There’s no way I can keep up. At first I expected John to ignore us. After all, Faron’s been shunned. But this is a public place. Maybe that’s the difference. Still, I get the feeling that we aren’t exactly welcome here.
“So you’re from Pinecraft,” John says, turning to me. “Bet you’ve never seen snow.” He flashes a mouthful of big white teeth. “Do you know what happens when it melts?”
“No.”
“Your feet get wet.”
John smirks. He isn’t much older than me. The skin around his eyes is smooth and his arms are strong like Faron’s.
“The Lord’s been good,” he says, kissing the baby’s forehead. “Got another little one on the way this spring.”
Faron nods at the Old Order girl slumped at the table. All this time, she hasn’t said a word. I can’t help thinking of the Old Order girls in the surf at sunrise, how free they looked there.
“Still got that old Ford?” John asks.
“Yeah, it’s still running.”
“Maybe we should go take a look at it,” he says, lowering his voice. “I could use some fresh air.”
John passes the baby into his wife’s outstretched arms. I know why he wants to leave. He doesn’t want to get in trouble. Not with so many eyes on us. I used to think it was hard living in Pinecraft. Everybody watching. Just waiting for you to mess up. That’s nothing compared to the Old Order Amish in Maine.
As we head for the door, a dozen faces turn. The bearded old men twist around in their chairs, shifting their enormous bellies. I glare back at them. Go ahead. Take a picture. It lasts longer.
I’m almost thankful for the cold once we’re outside. At least it’s easier to breathe. There’s a horse and buggy coming up the road. The boy at the reins is wearing a faded red sweatshirt. The girl is bundled in a dark shawl and bonnet. They look straight ahead as the buggy rolls past. I stare at the safety triangle on the back, so bright and out of place.
Faron watches in silence. I try to imagine him in that boy’s place, steering a buggy on a dirt road.
“Never thought I’d see that again,” he mutters.
“And I never expected to see you,” John says. “It’s like talking to a ghost, returned from the dead.”
He’s right.
We are ghosts.
“Don’t have much time,” John says, looking back at the road. “Whatever needs saying . . . better say it quick.”
He’s nervous. If someone catches us in the woods, they’ll think we’re up to no good.
“You want to check out the truck?” I remind him.
John hesitates. He takes off his glasses and wipes them on his sleeve.
“Come on,” says Faron, marching ahead.
His truck is at the bottom of the hill, parked under a tree. The red paint stands out against the overcast sky.
Faron brushes a leaf off the windshield. “My dad used to dump out the gas tank. He’d get so fired up.”
“That’s one way to put it,” says John. “You’d go tearing down those country roads. Almost got yourself killed, racing that thing.”
I glance at Faron. He never mentioned this before.
“Well, it’s still in one piece,” he says.
“You or the truck?”
Just then, a crow swoops above us. It calls out once, twice. Three times. I search for it in the branches. There’s nothing. Only the skeletal trees.
“I can’t help you, Faron Mast. Whatever trouble you’re in, it’s time you faced it on your own.”
John looks so smug, like he’s never made a mistake. Never had to fight for himself. Yeah, he’s got it all figured out.
“I’m the one who’s in trouble,” I tell him. “Not Faron.”
“Is that right?” John says, turning to look at me. “What sort of trouble could a Beachy girl from Pinecraft get into?”
“My friend Alice is missing.”
He takes a step back. “Alice Yoder?”
I nod.
“That’s no surprise,” he says. “Alice has been running around for a while. She’s got boys on her mind. I’ll tell you that much.”
He’s talking like she deserves to be missing. But she didn’t do anything wrong. What’s so bad about wanting to kiss a boy? Or dreaming of faraway places like California, where it’s always sunny and warm?
What’s so bad about wanting to be free?
“So the Yoder girl ran off,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “That’s no business of mine.”
If a Rumspringa girl disappears, it’s somehow her fault. I can’t help feeling that things would be different if Alice were a boy.
“Your family sells the Yoder quilts,” I say to him. “I’m thinking you might know where Alice’s mom lives.”
“The widow?”
“That’s right.”
He squints like he’s trying to remember. But I know he’s only putting on a show. “The widow hasn’t come around lately.”
“I didn’t ask if you’ve seen her,” I say, gritting my teeth. “I asked if you know where she lives.”
“Now why would I know that?” John leans against the truck and crosses his arms. At that moment, I want to scream at him. He can’t tell me he doesn’t know where Mrs. Yoder lives. He only cares about saving his own skin.
“What about Alice’s dad?” I just blurt it out.
“Her dad?”
“Yes.”
He frowns. “Sam Yoder’s been gone over ten years.”
“I heard there was an accident.”
“Well, that was a long time ago,” he says.
“What happened to him?”
“He was out on Cochrane Lake. I guess probably he was fishing for trout. You can’t trust the ice that early in the season. You’ll sink like a stone and never come up again.”
I shiver.
Alice said her dad was hurt in an accident. She told me he was dead. I never questioned her. Never wanted to make her sad. Now John’s saying it’s true.
“The water’s not deep, but it’s mighty cold,” he adds.
I believe John’s telling the truth. Or rather, he thinks it’s the truth. The two aren’t always the same.
“The Yoder family’s been through a patch of darkness,” he says, shaking his head. “A shame to lose one more.”
One more?
The way he’s talking, you’d think Alice is dead too.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
John’s already walking away. “You don’t belong here. Both of you,” he says, looking at Faron. “Better get on the road. Head south where you belong.”
“Please. Can’t you tell me where Mrs. Yoder lives?”
“The widow doesn’t need you poking around. Leave the past alone. She’s known a lot of suffering.”
“I just want to talk to her. That’s all.”
“You got a big voice, Lucy,” he says, heading up the hill. “But you need a bigger backbone.”
All the electricity inside me is burning. If I listen, I can hear it, like dipping your head underwater. It doesn’t matter that Alice is in trouble. As far as the Old Order is concerned, she’s gone.
&nbs
p; She’s not even a ghost.
chapter twenty-six
snowflakes
We’ve been driving for hours, trying to find Cochrane Lake. I stare out the window. All I see are pine trees so thick, they blot out the fading sunlight.
“You never drove up here?” I ask Faron.
“Never,” he says, gripping the steering wheel. “Once I got the truck, I was gone. Couldn’t get away fast enough.”
No wonder the Old Order families feel safe, traveling by horse and buggy. It keeps them from going too far.
We haven’t passed any farms. Only dirt roads that lead to nowhere. If the Yoders live close to the lake, why haven’t we seen anything yet? Not a single roof jutting above the road. No chimney smoke threading the pines.
“I’m telling you, Lucy. You can’t believe everything that comes out of John Lapp’s mouth.”
“He’s telling the truth. At least, the way he sees it.”
“Yeah, but we’ve been driving in circles forever.”
“Why can’t you just have faith?”
He grabs my hand and squeezes. “I’d hate to see you get hurt.”
“Too late,” I mutter.
“Lucy. Remember what I told you. We’re in this together.”
Silence.
“Remember?” he says again. Louder, this time.
I still won’t look at him.
Faron slows down and pulls over. He cuts the ignition. Unhooks his seatbelt. Kicks the door open and climbs out.
The keys dangle next to me, swinging back and forth.
From the truck, I watch him disappear into the woods. Now I’ve done it. I wait a few seconds. When he doesn’t come back, I grab the keys and hop out.
The ground crunches beneath my sneakers. I can feel my breath curling like steam around my face. The late afternoon sky is a smear. Hardly any sunlight left. I turn a corner, following a hint of smoke in the breeze.
Faron is looking at the mountains. I’m not used to them yet. I keep checking to make sure they haven’t moved.
“It’s snowing,” he finally says.
“Where?”
“Everywhere.”
All around us, snowflakes spin in midair. I stare at the specks gleaming in my hands.
“They have patterns?”
“Of course they do.” He laughs.
I laugh too.
We walk to the truck and everything’s okay now. The snow paints the road with a brightness purer than the sky.
It’s like starting all over again.
• • •
Walking back through the woods, I think about Alice. This is her home. But I don’t feel her spirit here. I slide the pins out of my prayer cap and let my hair swing loose. Still, it’s not enough to keep me warm.
Faron grabs my arm. “Somebody’s in the truck.”
Behind the windshield, there’s a flicker of movement.
“I’ve got the keys,” I tell him.
“Did you leave it unlocked?”
Maybe I did.
“Wait here,” he says.
When Faron reaches the truck, he yanks open the passenger door. Somebody is inside, crouched on the passenger seat. And that somebody is a little girl in an Old Order bonnet.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, walking up, real slow. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
Tears leak down her chin. She’s got this scared look on her face, like we’re going to eat her alive. Her pale eyes dart back and forth.
“What’s your name?” I ask softly.
“Emma Farber.”
“How long have you been hiding in there?”
She lunges for the door, but I move in front of it, blocking her way out.
“Please don’t tell my dad,” she says, sniffing. “I just want to go home.”
“You live around here?”
“Not too far,” she says. “Just off Smokey Hollow Road.”
“Ever been to Cochrane Lake?”
“Sure. Lots of times.”
“Then you probably know the Yoders,” I say, glancing back at Faron. “Can you show us the way?”
“You mean the widow’s place?” she says, blinking at me.
“That’s right. Do you know where she lives?”
Emma lowers her head.
She knows. But she’s scared. This is a really big deal for her, talking to us. I bet she’s never been in a car before.
How can I get her to trust me?
“What if we drive you home?” I ask.
Finally a hint of a smile.
“Here’s the deal,” I tell her. “If we give you a ride in the truck, will you help us find the widow?”
“She won’t talk to you,” Emma says flatly.
“Why not?”
“The widow doesn’t talk to no one. Especially if you’re . . .” She struggles with the words. “If you’re not from around here.”
Faron gives me a look.
“Tell her.” I nudge him. “Only say it in Deitsch.”
He does.
Emma’s mouth drops open. “Kannscht du Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch schwetzer?”
“Yah, I can speak Deitsch,” he says, climbing behind the wheel. “Been speaking it all my life.”
For a minute, they go back and forth, talking fast. I stand next to the truck, feeling a little left out.
“Okay,” says Emma, sliding over. “I’ll show you where to go.”
• • •
The road winds through the mountains. By now, the sun has faded away. We pass row after row of plain white farmhouses. In every window, a tiny candle burns, keeping watch.
“The widow’s place is that way,” Emma tells us.
There’s a dirt path up ahead. No telephone poles or street lights. Just a clearing in the pine trees.
“You follow that trail,” she says.
Faron jerks the wheel, pulling off the road.
“No. Please don’t take me there,” Emma says, grabbing my arm so tight it burns.
He slams the brakes.
“Please,” she says again. “I can walk home by myself.”
“You sure about that?” he asks.
She nods. “It’s not far.”
I push open the door. Emma is right behind me, scooting down from the truck in her long dress. She looks so out of place. Not to mention, really scared. It doesn’t seem right, leaving her alone, but she’s already disappearing into the woods.
“Emma, wait.”
I call her name, but the Old Order girl doesn’t turn around. She’s a dark shape, floating between the pine trees, until finally, she is gone.
chapter twenty-seven
old ways
The Yoder farm is hidden at the end of a dirt road. Faron parks the truck and we get out and walk. Unlike the other farmhouses I saw earlier, this place is rundown and neglected. Most of the shingles have fallen off the roof. The front porch is sagging as if it’s about to collapse, and the paint has blistered like dead skin.
A dog trots out from behind the barn, whipping his tail. He lopes up to me and slams his paws on my shoulders.
“Looks like you two are old friends,” says Faron.
“This is Alice’s dog. His name’s Shepherd,” I say, scratching his ears. I remember from her letters. And the cornfield where the boys played baseball. It’s empty now. Just a smear of brown stalks dappled with snow.
Shepherd crouches at my feet and whimpers. If he could talk, he’d tell us: Somebody is nearby.
The widow.
She’s marching up the dirt road, carrying a stack of firewood. When she sees me, the logs tumble to the ground.
I stand in front of Mrs. Yoder, waiting for her to get angry. Scream at me. But she doesn’t say a word. She bends down and gathers up the firewood like nothing ever happened.
“Lucy Zimmer,” she finally says. “Are you just going to stand there catching flies?”
Slowly, I walk toward the pile of twisted branches. I scoop up as many as I can carry. Mrs. Yoder doesn’t even
glance at me.
“Come along,” she says, disappearing inside the farmhouse.
I can’t decide what to do.
The door hangs open, swinging on its hinges.
As I step onto the porch, the boards creak under my sneakers. It’s dark inside and smells like old things. The kitchen is lit by the sickly glow of an oil lamp. There’s a long pinewood table, like the kind my dad built. I wonder if Alice’s dad made it.
Mrs. Yoder is hunched near a wood stove. I drop the armload of firewood on the floor. Still, she doesn’t move. It’s like I’m not even there. She tosses a branch into the fire and the air sharpens with smoke.
“Sit down,” she says.
I sink into the hard wooden chair.
Faron doesn’t sit at the table, although there’s plenty of room. He stands in the corner, head bowed, looking at his hands.
Mrs. Yoder looks too.
She takes her time, peeling off her snow-crusted boots. It’s so strange, the way she’s acting, like I haven’t come all this way, hoping to make things right. After a minute, she flicks her gaze at me.
“Where’s your kapp?” she says.
Without thinking, I reach up and touch my hair.
She frowns. “Are you on Rumspringa now, too?”
I don’t say anything. Mrs. Yoder knows I’m from Pinecraft. I’m not allowed to have Rumspringa.
“And the Mast boy,” she says, glaring at Faron. “His name’s been put in the bann. He’s not supposed to be here. But it doesn’t really matter. He can’t work. Not with those broken hands. Nobody cares about him anyway.”
Faron closes his eyes.
“Isn’t that right?” she snaps.
“Leave him alone,” I say, getting up from the table. “Faron hasn’t done anything to you.”
She motions for me to sit down. “What’s happened to you, Lucy Zimmer? You were always such a strange little thing. We’d go to the beach and you’d dig up fish bones. Carry them home in a bucket, stinking like the devil. Always the one with the oddest questions. ‘Do starfish come from the sky?’”
I remember those trips to Lido Key. The crowd of people on the sand, watching me and Alice—a pair of Amish girls digging for shells.
“A strange little thing,” Mrs. Yoder says again. She nudges the rug on the floor, pushing it back in place. “Your father’s heart must be shattered. Did he give up on you?”
Snowbirds Page 19
