Snowbirds

by Crissa Chappell

  “Did you give up on Alice?”

  Mrs. Yoder flinches. It’s the first hint of a reaction I’ve seen from her.

  “That’s a fine one, coming from the Beachy girl who left my daughter alone in Water Tower Park,” she says. “There’s nothing to be done with Alice. Not unless you go back in time.”

  What does she mean, go back in time?

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I should’ve stayed with her.”

  “You went home,” says Mrs. Yoder. “Isn’t that what you said?”

  The lie tightens its grip.

  I can’t hold on anymore.

  “Yes, that’s what I said. But it’s not true.”

  I glance back at Faron. He’s still looking at his hands.

  Mrs. Yoder goes over to the wood stove. She tosses another handful of sticks in the fire. When she turns around, her eyes are shiny.

  “I know,” she says.

  I’m stunned. How does she know?

  She eases into a chair. Now we’re sitting across from each other, just like the day after the party. This time, Dad isn’t here to protect me.

  Mrs. Yoder stares out the window. “Alice is dead,” she says, watching the snow tap against the glass.

  My head is spinning. I can’t breathe in that too-close room. Can’t make sense of what the Old Order woman is saying.

  “She’s with her father now.”

  When I hear “father,” I think she means the Lord in heaven. Then I remember what the Rumspringa boys told me in Pinecraft Park.

  “She ain’t no widow. That’s just what Alice tells everybody. Her dad’s still alive. He went missing too. Long time ago.”

  Alice’s dad left the Old Order. That must be the truth. Not those rumors about him falling through the ice on Cochrane Lake.

  “Alice’s dad is in Maine, isn’t he?”

  Mrs. Yoder doesn’t answer.

  “Alice is in Maine, too. And so is her father. He’s not dead like you’ve been telling everyone. Why did you keep it a secret?”

  She gets up and stands near the window.

  Silent.

  Alice’s mom isn’t going to tell me anything. Faron’s right. This isn’t Pinecraft. I’m an outsider. My dad is Beachy Amish-Mennonite. But I haven’t been baptized.

  In her mind, I’m not Amish at all.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Mrs. Yoder says, turning away.

  When I was little, Alice’s mom used to braid my hair, Old Order–style, and sing my favorite hymns in Deitsch. It was like digging up a secret, like the doves hidden inside a sand dollar. We sang together, walking home from Lido Key, our buckets full of shells.

  I used to think we’d always be friends. Me and Alice. But that’s when the world wasn’t so big. Now I know it’s made of yarn and thread. Many stitches, tied together. One square of tattered cloth, holding on to the next. All different, though they might look the same.

  There’s room enough for all.

  “If you don’t tell me where Alice is,” I say to Mrs. Yoder, “I’ll tell everybody that you lied about her dad.”

  Mrs. Yoder turns around. “And why would they believe you?”

  “Because I’m going to find him,” I tell her. “And then everybody will know you lied.”

  “Why would I lie?” she says, a little too quickly.

  “Because you’re scared. You didn’t want to lose Alice. It’s like she never had a chance. Never got to see anything, except what you wanted her to see. But now I’m starting to see different too.”

  The snow taps against the glass like a wind chime.

  I ask the question again.

  “Tell me where Alice is,” I say, getting up from the table. “Or I will tell everybody the truth.”

  “The truth?” Her sharp little face turns toward mine. “Here’s the truth, Lucy Zimmer. You talk high and mighty, but you don’t know wrong from right. You think there’s no harm in making up your own rules. Not following the Lord’s path. Hard work. That’s the only thing that counts in this world.”

  “The Lord gave us brains, didn’t He?”

  Mrs. Yoder glares. “You’re a Pinecraft girl. Your idea of hard work is walking on the beach.”

  “Hard work doesn’t make you a good person.”

  “Is that right?” she snaps. “You’re an expert on goodness, now? What makes you so perfect?”

  “I’m not perfect,” I tell her. “But as far as I can tell, the Lord doesn’t care about the length of your dress. Or if a girl wears a skirt or jeans. I’m sure He’s got better things to worry about.”

  “That’s enough.” Mrs. Yoder opens a drawer and hands me a knife. “Go on. Make yourself useful.”

  There’s a heap of potatoes in a bowl next to the sink. I start peeling them, but my fingers won’t stay still.

  Faron stands behind me and holds the knife steady.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  Mrs. Yoder puts on her coat and slips outside. I have no idea what she’s doing out there. The snow is falling heavier now, piling on the windowsill. After a minute, the door swings open, letting in a gust of cold.

  “That truck parked by the road. Does it belong to you?” she asks.

  I glance up at Faron. He slices even faster, peeling one long curlicue.

  “Yeah, it’s ours,” I say.

  “Must’ve cost a lot.”

  The knife clatters on the floor. When I pick it up, the handle is speckled with blood.

  Mrs. Yoder snatches it away from me. “You’re no good in the kitchen,” she says, wiping the knife. “Probably can’t even set the table.”

  “Yeah, but I can build one,” I mutter.

  Faron laughs so hard, Mrs. Yoder spins around. She drags a chair into a corner of the room and he sits down without a word.

  All this time, Mrs. Yoder hasn’t said anything to him. She hasn’t even looked at him. Not once.

  So this is what shunning feels like.

  It’s even worse than dying. At least when you’re dead, you leave a memory, like a fingerprint on the earth.

  Shunning is like you never lived at all.

  “Come along, Lucy,” she says, handing me a lamp.

  I follow her through the hallway to a door near the stairs. Mrs. Yoder pushes it open. It’s so dark, I can hardly see the steps disappearing into the basement.

  Please don’t make me go in there.

  “Get yourself cleaned up,” she says, as if I’ve made her house dirty, just by breathing in it.

  The damp air smells like the roots of sleeping trees. I hold the lamp in both hands as the door slowly closes behind me. There’s a washtub at the bottom of the steps. Alice used to carry a tea kettle for hot water in the winter. I remember from her letters. Mrs. Yoder doesn’t give me a kettle. Only a sliver of soap, thin as a fingernail.

  I rinse my face over a bowl near the tub. The water’s so cold, my hands are numb within seconds. Is this where Alice scrubbed her hair in a bucket? I try to imagine her in this house, trapped with her secrets.

  Alice must’ve known that her dad is still alive. She had to go around, make believing he was a ghost.

  The longer you tell a lie, the closer it feels to the truth.

  I need to find out more about Alice’s family, but I’m running out of time. Mrs. Yoder isn’t talking. She just wants me to leave. Only the snow is keeping me here. In the morning, it will be gone. And so will I.

  When I climb upstairs, the table is already set. Two lonely plates. Faron is still in a corner of the room, slumped in a chair.

  “For the boy,” says Mrs. Yoder, handing me a plate of chicken and boiled potatoes. Is she really going to make Faron eat by himself?

  In church, everybody’s always going on about forgiveness. Turn the other cheek. Love your neighbor more than yourself. They make it sound so easy. How can you believe those words and treat somebody so bad? Doesn’t Faron deserve a second chance? What about the rest of us? Alice. Her dad.

  Don’t they deserve forgiveness
too?

  I put Faron’s plate on the table.

  “Not there,” says Mrs. Yoder.

  I don’t move. “Why isn’t he eating with us?”

  “You know why,” she says.

  “Lucy.” Faron’s eyes are pleading with me. “Leave it alone. It’s just the way things are done.”

  “Well, maybe it’s time to change the rules,” I say, looking at Mrs. Yoder.

  “Rules? What do you know about rules, Lucy Zimmer?” she says. “You were spoiled in Pinecraft, running around, free as you please. As far as I can tell, your father didn’t teach you anything.”

  It makes me sick, the way she’s talking about Dad. Maybe he’s not perfect. But my dad would never treat anybody like this.

  “The bann doesn’t teach you anything,” I say.

  Mrs. Yoder frowns. “It teaches you not to stray from the Lord.”

  “The Lord doesn’t care about the bann.”

  “So you’re talking about the Lord now?”

  “The Lord doesn’t care if my head is covered. Or if my dress is too short. It’s just a bunch of rules that somebody made up.”

  “The rules are in place for a reason.”

  “And what’s that? Why is my dad allowed to drive a car in Florida? And why do the Old Order girls in Maine go around in buggies? Or roller skates? It’s not like it’s written in the Bible. I mean, does it even matter?”

  I know the answer. It’s not about electricity. If you’re Amish, it’s about letting the world into your home.

  “Don’t you question the rules,” says Mrs. Yoder. “They’re what’s keeping us safe together.”

  “Did the rules keep Alice safe?”

  Mrs. Yoder slaps me so hard, I stumble backward.

  Nobody’s ever hit me before. Dad never laid a hand on me, no matter what I did. This is a different kind of anger, leaking its poison into Mrs. Yoder like the hole at the bottom of the ocean. And she’s been holding on to it for a long time.

  Faron rushes over to me, but Mrs. Yoder moves between us.

  “You will sleep in the barn,” she tells him. “I want you both gone before the sun rises.”

  “He’ll freeze out there,” I say, but she’s already climbing upstairs, taking the steps two at a time.

  Faron grabs the lamp off the table. I follow him through the kitchen door into the yard, where he stands in the faint light, staring up at the sky.

  There’s the cold and nothing else.

  Still, we look.

  September 5

  Smyrna, Maine

  Dear Lucy,

  He says he loves me.

  Last night we kissed in the field behind the barn. My heart was beating so fast, I thought it was going to explode. I never felt a kiss like that before. Then I looked up and a star crackled across the sky. It was a sign. I just know it.

  I’ve been saving up my money from the Amish Market. Tobias says he’s going to need LOTS of cash, if he’s taking the bus to Florida. I keep it hidden real good so Mom won’t find it. There’s a loose board under my bed. It wiggles like a rotten tooth. That’s where I hid the money.

  I hope it’s enough.

  Lucy, I’m on my way out of here. And once I’m gone, I’m never coming back. I’m sick of working all day. “Chicken chores” Mom calls it. Throwing scraps at the hens before they bite off my fingers. Sweating over the stove all day, making jam. (Why can’t we buy a jar at the store once in a while?) By the time everything is done, it’s time for bed.

  I’m working on a plan so me and Tobias can be together. I can’t tell you everything yet. But it’s going to be so perfect. Once I get down to Pinecraft, I’ll figure out a way to escape. Will you help me?

  Remember when we used to climb the mango tree behind your house? You told me that we’d always be friends, no matter what. And I believed you. It didn’t matter that we lived so far away. Or that our families are so different. All that mattered was our amazing friendship.

  When I said you’re like a sister to me, I meant it. You’re the only one I can trust. I always felt like I could tell you anything. You never judged me. Not even when I told you that I’m not sure if I believe in God anymore. It’s hard to believe in something you can’t see.

  The red mare is missing again.

  I don’t think she’s coming back.

  Seven days until Florida.

  Alice

  chapter twenty-eight

  thin ice

  In Alice’s bedroom, I shiver under her quilt. This is where she wrote letters by candlelight. It’s where her dresses still droop from their hooks. And it’s where she dreamed of escape. But the pinewood walls can’t trap me inside this lonely farmhouse.

  The house is listening. Floorboards creak as I slip out of bed, holding my breath, in case it hears that too. I head downstairs, where an old-fashioned clothes wringer sits in a corner near a row of dresses hung to dry. They sway on the line, delicate as the skins of living things.

  I duck under the clothesline. Almost there. My coat is by the front door, hanging above my muddy sneakers. But Mrs. Yoder’s shoes aren’t there.

  She’s gone.

  I shove my feet in the sneakers and yank the laces tight. When I pull the door open, the wind blasts through me. The more I think about Mrs. Yoder, the way she treated Faron, the colder I grow inside.

  The Yoder’s barn is on the hill. I run toward it, flinching against the snow. By the time I reach the top, I’m out of breath. The barn reminds me of the pictures in my dad’s Amish calendar—a tall, red building with a pointy roof. A wooden star nailed to the door. I wonder if the Old Order men in Smyrna got together to build it, a long time ago.

  “Many hands make easy work,” Dad told me.

  He said the barn raisings are about bringing people together. One big family. That’s what the Amish are supposed to be.

  I push the double doors open.

  Alice’s dog is curled up on the floor. He thumps his tail and whines.

  “Don’t say anything,” I whisper.

  I pull myself up the ladder and pray I don’t fall. If I wasn’t so scared, I might think the loft is a cozy place to sleep. The bales of sweet-smelling hay are stacked so high, they almost touch the rafters.

  Faron is huddled under a blanket, shivering. I nudge his shoulder.

  “Wake up. Mrs. Yoder knows about the truck,” I tell him.

  He lifts his head. “Lucy? What are you talking about?”

  “She’s in the woods. We have to leave. Now. Before she comes back.”

  We climb down from the loft and head outside, where a gravel path twists through the pines behind the barn.

  “That’s probably where she went.” I point to a light shining on the hill.

  “It’s the neighbor’s house,” he says. “I bet she goes over there to borrow their phone.”

  A wave of sickness crashes over me. “Mrs. Yoder is there right now, calling the police. She waited until you went to sleep.”

  “Are you sure? The Old Order aren’t like that. I mean, she wouldn’t do that to me,” he says, as if trying to convince himself.

  “Don’t you get it? She doesn’t care if your family’s Old Order,” I tell him. “Because you’re not anymore.”

  Faron glances over his shoulder. The truck is parked near the road, the windshield covered in snow and dead leaves. Now he’s got to choose. He can trust me. Or put his faith in the Old Order, the family who turned him away.

  He takes out his keys.

  After tonight, he’ll never drive that truck again.

  • • •

  We’re driving real slow through the woods. Ahead of us is the lake, surrounded by dozens of smashed-up cars, their parts scattered on the ground as if they fell from the sky. All the trees are thin and silvery. In the distance, the water gleams in the moonlight.

  “This is the lake,” I tell Faron.

  “You really think Alice’s dad is still alive?”

  She’s with her father now. That’s what
Mrs. Yoder told me. If Alice skipped stones on this lake, it was a long time ago.

  “Mrs. Yoder’s been lying all this time. She’s been telling everybody that he’s dead. And it isn’t true.”

  “But why?” he asks.

  “Something bad happened here,” I say, glancing at the cool surface of the lake, so still and silent.

  I can’t go back and make things right.

  The past is in the past. That’s where it belongs.

  “Alice is with her dad,” I tell Faron. “If we find him, we’ll find her too.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to be found?”

  He’s right. What if Mr. Yoder’s changed after all this time? Maybe he’s gone rotten inside. There’s no telling what happened to him.

  My throat’s so dry, I can’t swallow. Can’t even gulp a breath. I lick my lips and stare out at the lake. “We have to find him. But first we’re ditching the truck.”

  Faron shakes his head. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Mrs. Yoder’s got the police looking for us.”

  “So how are we supposed to find Alice’s dad on foot? You can’t get far if you walk. Not if it keeps snowing.”

  I don’t know how we’re going to find Alice’s dad, but one thing’s for sure.

  We’ll be together.

  I get out and start walking. Dozens of abandoned cars are all around us. Weeds twist through the metal frames, shooting up through piles of snow. Their empty husks are scattered in the woods like crab shells picked clean of their meat.

  “It’s nothing but a graveyard,” says Faron.

  I blink.

  “A graveyard for cars.”

  Some are just empty husks, like bones chewed and spit out. The broken pieces seem to float in the darkness. They’re just things that men built out of rubber and metal and steel. They aren’t alive and they can’t hurt me.

  We look back at the truck.

  “Okay,” he says. “Start pushing.”

  I shove my weight against the bumper.

  It doesn’t move.

  “We need to get some speed going,” he says, slamming both hands on the truck bed.

  Slowly, the tires crunch over things in the dark. When the truck begins to roll, Faron jumps in the driver’s seat, but we’ve already lost steam. I’m pushing as hard as I can, but the wheels won’t spin any faster. I try again and slip on the icy ground.