Stars for Lydia

by P. L. Gaus

  Schell smiled. “Those are the Schwartzentruber settlements.”

  “And the names?”

  “Bishops. Schwartzentruber bishops.”

  “Why is that special to you? There are Amish people all throughout Holmes County.”

  “Schwartzentrubers are especially important to our ministry.”

  “Do you mind telling me why?”

  Ed Schell smiled apologetically. “That’s easy, Professor. I used to be a Schwartzentruber. I know very well how old-fashioned they are.”

  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  Outside beside his small white truck, with longer evening shadows reaching across the gravel parking lot, Professor Branden considered the timeline. Mary Yost - missing for over three weeks. Except for Thursday and Friday last week. Pregnant, and now due to deliver her baby. Esther Yost, the youngest Yost daughter? Also missing. And Monday morning after class? Lydia had been asking about births to slave women. And by Monday evening? Well, by Monday evening, Lydia Schwartz was already dead.

  And the professor wasn’t sure that he admired the Schells’ practice of dealing only with the “spiritual side of the equation,” especially when there was such obvious psychiatric trouble in the family. That had been the real question. Surely, Branden thought, the Schells should have known how difficult John Yost could be. They must have known how depressed he was. They must have known that he had a severe and untreated psychiatric condition.

  So, had they tried to help only Mary, or had they tried to help John, too? Had they taught the Scriptures to only Mary, or had they ministered also to John? And if only to Mary? Well then, why not also to John? That’s where the real trouble lay in the Yost family. Why not try to help John?

  Chapter 15

  Tuesday, August 29

  8:00 PM

  When Caroline and the professor had just finished the dinner dishes, the bell rang at their front door.

  “Are you expecting anyone?” Caroline asked as she moved down the front hallway toward the door.

  Branden called after her, “It could be Bruce,” as he finished wiping the counter.

  He heard the front door open, and then he heard Caroline’s curious, “Michael, I think this is for you.”

  He turned out of the kitchen and into the hallway, and he saw Junior Yost standing on the front stoop. Junior was dressed in dull black denim from head to toe, and he was wearing his summer straw hat. Behind him stood his hobbled buggy horse at the curb, drinking from a plastic pail of water. Caroline stepped back as the professor advanced, and once they had Junior inside, the professor introduced him to Caroline.

  Junior spoke a shy, “How do you do,” and Caroline said, “Please come in,” indicating the living room to Junior.

  But Junior saw the carpet there, and he looked down to his boots. They were crusted with mud and manure, with bits of pale straw packed into the mix, and Junior seemed embarrassed. So, Caroline suggested the kitchen table instead, and Junior relaxed when he saw that the floors in the hallway and kitchen were tiled. He thought more about it, and then he bent over to remove his boots.

  Caroline led him into the kitchen, with the professor following. With a glum and haggard expression, and a slumping and weary posture, Junior eased himself onto a kitchen chair at the table, commenting that, “Somebody knows how to handle curly maple woodworking,” as he traced the grain of the wood in the tabletop with his fingertips. “Somebody really knows what they’re doing, here.”

  Branden sat opposite him, at the side of the table, and Caroline took a seat to Junior’s left, at the head of the table. “I’m sorry about your Aunt Lydia,” she said. “Truly Junior, I am very sorry.”

  Junior sighed heavily and nodded with a simple ‘what can I do?’ acknowledgement. “I haven’t been able to get any sleep,” he said. “And I haven’t been able to eat anything, either. My grandparents are very sad, but other people are kinda stiff about Lydia. You know, not liking how she left us all and went English, to go to college. They’re being kinda judgmental, so I don’t have anyone I can talk to. I understand, really, but people are a little too stiff to talk much about Aunt Lydia with me. I can’t believe she’s really dead.”

  The professor said, “I’ve wondered how folks would take it. That she died, I mean. But it’s not like she had joined the church and then walked out on her vows.”

  “No,” Junior said, contemplating the elaborate wood grain of the table. “It’s not like that at all. That would have been worse. She would have been shunned, if she had forsaken her vows. She just never joined the church, so there’s that, at least.”

  Branden saw Junior’s interest in the tabletop and said, “Jonah Miller made it, over in the Doughty Valley. His father gave it to us after his grandson Jeremiah was rescued.”

  “That must have been a while ago,” Junior commented.

  “Almost twenty years,” the professor said, smiling at the memory.

  “He’s a Diener, now,” Junior said. “Jeremiah. He has a family. He’s respected. I’d have to give that up, if I went English like Aunt Lydia. I’d give up a position in the church.”

  “Have you thought about that?” Caroline asked.

  “All the time,” Junior said, turning his eyes to her briefly. Then as if shy, he turned back to study the tabletop and added, “Aunt Lydia talked to me about this sort of thing. I told her I wanted to live in town, and she told me about all the things I’d give up, if I did that. But she also told me about how much she liked college. She said that I’d never really know myself, until I got an education. She said it like I was thwarted, somehow. Blocked from truly knowing myself. She said that knowledge was light. She said she felt like she had escaped to the light of freedom, by coming here to your college. I mean, that’s actually how she used to talk about it.”

  “You must have talked with her a lot,” the professor remarked. “You’ve decided that you’ll stay with the Amish church?”

  Junior nodded. “I’m to be married in the Fall,” he said solemnly. “Besides, I’m not nearly as smart as Aunt Lydia. Modern life is not for me.”

  Caroline said, “It’s all the modern things that Lydia liked so much, Junior.”

  “I know,” Junior said. “I’m not sure what that means, but I know she liked it better than living Amish. I admired her. She was courageous. It wasn’t easy for her. I’m just not that smart. But I don’t really know what her life here was like. I was raised on the farm. I was raised in the church. All of my friends and family are Amish. I couldn’t leave all of that, and I’m not smart enough, anyways.”

  “It’s not so much a matter of being smart, Junior,” the professor said. “Lydia found all the church rules to be oppressive. She just couldn’t live Amish anymore.”

  “I know,” Junior said sadly. “I just miss her, that’s all. I mean, I’ve missed her since the day she left, but especially now that she has died. And I never really found out what her life here was like. She’d come out to see me, but I never came into town. I know she had a car. And a phone. And I know she tried her best to see Die Maemme as much as she could, but Mother didn’t think it was such a good idea, having Lydia visiting all the time. But she did take a phone that Aunt Lydia bought for her. That was a surprise. Father didn’t know. They talked on their phones, and Father didn’t know.”

  Branden asked, “Why did your Aunt Lydia advise you to stay Amish, Junior? I mean, what did she tell you?”

  “She explained how much I’d give up by leaving for the city,” Junior said, misting a bit in his eyes. He pulled a crumpled bandana and wiped tears away. Then he became even more sorrowful. He sniffled some and wiped his eyes again. “Grohs-mammi wanted her to come back. To come back and be sensible again. I knew she’d never do that, so I just kept my mouth shut around people.”

  “Your Grandmother?” Caroline asked.

  “Yes. Grohs-mammi Schwartzentruber. Ida. Grohs-daett Mose, too. They wanted her to come home and live Amish, like she was always supposed to do.”
>
  “I don’t think she could have done that, Junior,” the professor said.

  “I know. She was too smart to live Amish like us.”

  “Again, Junior,” Branden said, “I don’t think it’s a matter of smart or not smart.”

  Junior shook his head. “I know what I’m saying. Aunt Lydia could see it, too. If I lived English, I’d end up a common laborer. That’s all. Nothing more. But if I live Amish, I’ll be a landowner. A father. A husband. Maybe one day a Deacon. I’d be a leader in the church, just like Jeremiah Miller and his grandfather. Eli, right? Old Eli Miller, the Bishop. Aunt Lydia says that those are much more important things than being an English laborer, and I believe her. I mean she said that.”

  Eyes spilling out suddenly with tears, Junior whispered, “Oh, Oh, Oh no. She’s really dead, isn’t she.”

  “Yes,” the professor said, standing. He lifted Junior to his feet and embraced him. He felt Junior shudder in his arms and begin to weep. Junior sagged into the professor’s arms, and Branden took the weight of him, supporting him as Junior drained out his grief over the professor’s shoulder. Eventually Junior eased himself away and dried his eyes again. “Sorry,” he said, taking his seat.

  Drying her own eyes, Caroline stood up and said, “I’m going to fix us something to eat, Junior. What would you like to have?”

  Junior cleared his throat, smiled bravely and shook his head. “Really, Mrs. Branden, I don’t think that would make any sense right now.”

  “I’ll make whatever you want, Junior,” Caroline said. “You just tell me what it is.”

  Junior smiled as if he had framed a mischievous thought.

  “What?” Caroline pressed. “Be honest, now.”

  “OK,” Junior said, hesitating. “I guess. I mean, well. Pizza?”

  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  Pizza was delivered, the three of them ate it at the kitchen table, and Junior finished the last slice, his fifth. He smiled at his audacity, and he seemed to have relaxed, as if his sorrows had faded into the background, in his momentary brush with modernity. He leaned back from the table and wiped his lips with a napkin, saying, “Die Maemme would never have cooked anything like that.”

  “It’s easy enough,” Caroline said. “Or you can just order it, like we did.”

  Junior’s smile faded a little as he thought about that. Eventually, he said, “I’m not sure Father would approve. I mean, we don’t exactly have pepperoni on the farm.”

  “Maybe if you took some home to him?” Caroline suggested.

  Junior shook his head, and his happy smile changed to something that was mixed heavily with resignation. “Father is difficult to deal with these days. I mean, maybe he’d like pizza. If he wasn’t so depressed. You can never tell what he’s going to say. Mother has had some tough times with him. No, I don’t think I’d even try bringing him pizza. Not with him this way.”

  Taking the opportunity to speak on this topic, the professor asked, “Was it too much for your mother, then, to deal with him? Was it because of his depression?”

  Junior nodded. He fumbled nervously with his napkin. “She tried, Professor. She tried everything. It was so hard. She couldn’t get anywhere with him. She was beaten down by it. He was closed off. Like you couldn’t talk to him about anything. The chores went wanting. The little children couldn’t understand. I tried to do his work and mine, too. Mother tried to cheer him up. But he pulled back. He pulled inside somewhere. I don’t know. The bishop told her it was her duty to stand by him. To help him. To take the weight, as a wife should do, until he had mended. Oh, we had the deacons and the preachers. But when they left, we were alone again with Father’s sorrows. And by then, Die Maemme was showing him scripture verses. You know, like, ‘here it is John. You can read it for yourself. We don’t have to live this way.’ Those kinds of things. She had been studying across the road with Dithy Silver, and some lady from town. So, she had all these pestering questions for Father, and he couldn’t handle it. I think it just made him worse. Then the bishop would tell her it was her duty to tend to him. To wait for him to heal. But she didn’t think he would. I saw her giving up on him. She tried so hard. She was trapped. She was hopeless about it. She was telling me that there was more in the Bible than what the preachers were telling us. So, I got to the point where I wanted to leave, too. But Aunt Lydia talked me out of it. If Die Maemme had been willing to trust Aunt Lydia, I think she would have talked Mother out of leaving. It’s funny that way. English life was right for Aunt Lydia, but she knew it would not be right for Die Maemme.”

  The professor asked, “Do you think that’s why your mother left? Taking Esther with her?”

  “Yes. The day before she left, she was carrying little Esther around and grumbling. Stuff like ‘I can’t do this anymore. I can’t take this anymore.’ So, yes. She wanted out. It never seemed to me that she’d just leave, though. I never thought she’d do that.”

  “I’m sorry, Junior,” the professor said. “I’m sorry that you’re having this trouble.”

  Junior sighed. “Anyways,” he started. He stared at the grain in the maple tabletop and eventually said, “Well, there was actually a reason that I came here.”

  Earnestly, Caroline said, “Tell us.”

  “She was a modern, right? Aunt Lydia? Could you show me some of the campus? Maybe her apartment? Room? I don’t know what you call it. But I thought that if I saw her places, maybe it’d help me be happier about my memories of her.”

  “Her dormitory room,” Branden said, smiling. “I can show you that this evening.”

  “And her things? I’d like to see her music player. She talked about that a lot. Or even just where she slept. That’d be nice. To see where she slept.”

  “Junior,” Branden said, “I’ll show you anything you want. I’ve got one of the grand master keys on campus. I can show you everything.”

  “Classrooms?” Junior asked. “Could we see one of those?”

  “Whatever you want, Junior. The campus is right here, and we can walk. I’ll show it all to you.”

  As they left, Junior’s eyes were misting over again.

  Chapter 16

  Tuesday, August 29

  9:40 PM

  Missy Taggert parked her car at the curb in front of the Brandens’ brick colonial, and her husband the sheriff got out on the passenger’s side in the dark, as she climbed out from behind the wheel. She waited for him as he rounded the front of the car, and she saw him sidestepping something on the pavement. Grumbling under his breath, the sheriff came up to her and said, “Road apples.”

  While Robertson was scraping the soles of his shoes on the curb, Missy rang the front doorbell, and by the time the professor had pulled the door open, Robertson was coming up the short front walk saying, “Mike, a horse left you a present out here on the pavement.”

  Lumbering as usual, Robertson came up to the stoop, kicked off both of his loafers and stepped inside after Missy, in his stocking feet.

  All the while, the professor had been laughing at the sheriff. It provoked a defeated growl from Robertson.

  “Caroline’s in the kitchen,” Branden said, still chuckling.

  “It isn’t really that funny, Mike,” said Robertson.

  Missy preceded them into the kitchen, and Branden brought the sheriff along in his stocking feet, saying, “Junior Yost was parked out front. He just left ten minutes ago.”

  “I ought to write him up,” Robertson griped. “Did he have any lights or reflectors on his rig, Mike? Because it’s dark out, now.”

  “I didn’t notice,” the professor answered judiciously. “But he’s a Schwartzentruber, right? So, you know he’s not going to use a reflector.”

  “So, I’ll go out and catch up to him,” Robertson said, smiling at last. “Write him a ticket.”

  Caroline spoke up amiably. “You’ll do no such thing, Sheriff.”

  Robertson snorted, and Missy, standing beside Caroline, held up her car keys and jangled
them for the sheriff. “I drove,” she said and laughed.

  Robertson sighed and surrendered, with his wrists crossed in front as if waiting for a pair of handcuffs.

  With a laugh, the professor said, “Don’t tempt us, Bruce. Really. Don’t tempt us.”

  Robertson shook his head and smiled. “You people,” he mumbled, exasperated.

  “Just what people would that be?” Caroline challenged.

  “Oh, you know,” Robertson started to say. “Oh, just forget it.”

  Airily, Caroline piped out, “Coffee, Sheriff? Missy?”

  In unison, each answered, “No thanks,” and Caroline asked, “Then maybe lemonade?”

  The sheriff nodded agreeably, and Branden helped Caroline pull four glasses down out of the cabinet. They took their glasses out onto the back porch, and the professor switched on only a single corner lamp, so that they sat on a mostly darkened porch, the professor remarking, “You can hear the crickets if you don’t turn on all the lights.”

  “Wonderful,” Robertson commented sarcastically.

  “It’ll be fine,” Missy said. “I’ve got preliminary results from the two crime scenes. Lydia’s death is obviously manslaughter, if you believe Meredith Silver’s suicide note.”

  “Do you have reason not to believe it?” Branden asked.

  “Perhaps. We’re comparing handwriting samples from documents recovered from her home, but the note was scrawled out hastily, so I’m not willing to conclude that Meredith Silver actually wrote it herself. The BCI labs will sort it out for us.”

  “She didn’t kill herself?” Caroline asked.

  “No,” Missy said, hesitating.

  “No gun,” the sheriff explained.

  “Right,” Missy said. “Right, and she couldn’t have shot herself from four feet away.”

  “Louise Herbeck?” the professor asked.

  “She insists not,” Robertson said. “And there wasn’t blood on her shoes. So, she didn’t track those prints across the floor.”

  “So that’s a homicide of one kind or another,” Caroline said. “What about Lydia?”