Swallowing, he opened his eyes to take in the scared faces of the two people he loved most in the world.
“First,” he said, praying they wouldn’t notice the roughness in his voice, “your mamm was not in the car with any man. Do you remember her Englisch friend? Brooke Stephenson?”
“I think so,” Rebekah said uncertainly.
Zeb frowned. “I always thought that was a funny name.”
“Not funny, only Englisch.”
Behind him, Hannah remained utterly silent but for the occasional clatter of a spoon on a bowl or the hiss of oil heating on the stove. He wished he knew what she was thinking.
“But she was nice,” Zeb said. “Mammi wouldn’t let us get in her car, but Brooke brought us cheeseburgers and french fries sometimes. Or pizzas.”
In allowing the friendship, one of the restrictions that Gideon had set in place was that their kinder never get in the car, even when it was parked. How often had he wished since then that he’d also insisted his wife never go with her friend in the car? Brooke could have visited Leah at their house or met her in town. But rationally, he knew that being on the road in a car was no more dangerous than being in a buggy. Less so, maybe.
Being in a car with a drunk driver, that was something else.
“Brooke was driving when the accident happened. And your mamm was not leaving us. She would never have done that. She loved you so much.”
Him, too, he thought, but he had, from time to time, wondered whether her close friendship with Brooke suggested Leah had regrets. She’d committed herself; he had never doubted she would keep that commitment. But she had been so excited when she drove away in that car with her single friend for a visit, or for an adventure. She wasn’t as excited about visits with her Amish friends, or to worship with her sisters and brothers in the church.
Although perhaps the way of her death had altered his memories of his wife.
Whatever those private thoughts, he would never cast any shade on his kinder’s memories of their mother.
Zeb and Rebekah stared at him, maybe sensing there was more he didn’t want to say. But wasn’t that the important part? Leah was with a female friend; she was certainly not running away from home. They had both died in a car accident.
“Now you can tell anyone who speaks about her that the stories they heard are false. Brooke had been your mamm’s very good friend from the time they were three or four years old. Brooke’s parents lived right next to your grandparents’ land. Baptism and marriage don’t mean an Amishman or woman has to cut off a good friend.” He did believe that, but guilt still nudged him to fear that his failure to set boundaries on that friendship made him partially responsible for the tragedy. And keeping an Englischer as a friend was fine—as long as that person wasn’t trying to undermine the Amish person’s faiths and values. As Brooke may have been doing. He went on, “Most of us aren’t quite so close to any Englisch friends as your mamm was, but many Amish have them. So long as they respect our beliefs,” he tacked on, “it is always good to have friends.”
“But . . .” Rebekah spoke barely above a whisper. “Why was Mammi in a car? We’re never s’posed to drive in cars.”
“That isn’t true. The three of us came all the way to Missouri on a bus. You remember that.” It had been a nightmarish trip, his kinder sunk in gloom yet also having trouble sitting in one seat for so many hours. He had been plagued the entire way with fear that he’d made a mistake leaving family and a prosperous farm behind, tearing his young kinder from everything loved and familiar.
But not from everything safe, Gideon reminded himself. They had shrunk from whispers, as he had, and become increasingly fearful. Rebekah and Zeb had clung together, even sharing a bedroom for comfort. He’d had to sit with them at night until they fell asleep. Many nights, one or the other woke crying out from a nightmare. They were afraid riding in a buggy, afraid anytime he was out of sight.
He had increasingly believed he had made the right decision. Until now.
“We are permitted to ride in a car when we have good reason—to visit someone who lives too far away for us to go in a buggy, or if an emergency arises. When Hannah’s grossdaadi, James, had a stroke, Samuel and Lilian called George for a ride to the hospital so they could get there as fast as possible.”
“I saw Toby Esch riding in a car with an Englisch girl,” Zeb said.
Gideon hoped he hid his wince. “During your rumspringa, you will be allowed to do things like ride in cars, have a cell phone and even an iPod to listen to music. I hope, when you reach that age, you won’t be foolish, but it’s important to look outside our Amish way of life to be certain that you can be baptized with a whole heart. Once Toby is ready to be baptized, he won’t ride in a car again just for fun.”
Looking thoughtful, Zeb nodded. “So Mammi wasn’t doing anything wrong when she was in the accident.”
“That’s what you should say,” he agreed. “I’ll need to talk to the parents of some of the kinder who were telling tales, and probably Bishop Amos, too.”
They sat quiet for a minute. Finally, Zeb said, “Daadi? Can we have dinner now?”
“Ja, certain sure. We’ll all like that. And then we can have pie.”
“I bet Hannah makes the best shoofly pie.”
Gideon assumed the same, but would have to talk to Zeb someday about using a word like bet. Laying bets was not something a good Amishman would do, nor did they believe in luck. They trusted in God’s will.
Only moments later, Hannah and Rebekah, who scrambled off her chair to help, had filled serving bowls and placed them on the table. When Hannah poured coffee for him, her eyes met his, and he had the very bad feeling she knew he hadn’t told his kinder everything. When they were alone, would she challenge him, or keep her opinion to herself?
Strangely, Gideon didn’t like either option.
Chapter Sixteen
They all fell back on routine with relief.
Rebekah helped put leftovers—and there were far more than usual—into containers to go into the refrigerator, then dried dishes as Hannah washed.
Zeb went out to spread seed for the chickens and close them into their coop for the night, after which he joined Gideon feeding animals, putting some in stalls, making sure gates were closed as they ought to be. Hannah knew one of Zeb’s jobs was to fill the food and water bowls for the barn cats, too, before closing the big doors.
Once Hannah dried her hands and took a last look to make sure the kitchen was spotlessly clean, she walked out with Rebekah. Giving her a hug, she said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Small, thin arms squeezed her waist. “I wish you lived here,” Rebekah whispered.
“Oh, honey . . .”
“I know you can’t, but—” Rebekah released her and backed away. “Zeb and I are going to play baseball.”
Really, she’d try to throw a plastic ball near enough to her brother for him to hit it. The first time Hannah saw them doing it, Rebekah had also been required to run and fetch the ball wherever it landed. Gideon spoke to his son, and now they took turns with the fetching. Zeb even reluctantly let her bat sometimes.
“Have fun,” she said.
Zeb raced past her toward his sister, calling, “Bye,” over his shoulder.
Gideon had already harnessed Clover and was backing her between the shafts. Hannah thought she could do it all now, but would hate to find out she hadn’t connected something important when horse and buggy separated halfway home.
Not home.
The reminder came by rote, but she had to keep renewing it. She didn’t understand why, since she and her mother had never lived anywhere long enough for her really to feel as if she were home. Samuel’s house was at least her original home, yet while her Deitsh had come back, not many memories had. The warm welcome to her daad’s house, even the knowledge that it once had been home
, didn’t make her feel any less like a guest. Someone temporary, as she’d always been.
She’d lived longer in her apartment in Lexington than she had anywhere else since her mother stole her away, but she suspected apartments never quite felt like home. Right now, she couldn’t think of anything she’d left behind that she missed.
Remembering what Gideon had said was inescapable. What would you be giving up, Hannah? His question had nibbled at her when she was on the edge of sleep at night.
The panic intensified. Throw over the life she had? At least it was familiar, safe.
Lonely.
She hadn’t been in Tompkin’s Mill very long, certainly not long enough to think about taking such a drastic step as Gideon had suggested. Was she capable of trusting in God that much?
Be practical, she told herself. Small steps. She wasn’t making enough money working for Gideon to be able to keep paying for an apartment she didn’t live in. What she should do was hire someone to pack up her stuff and store all of it until she knew where she was going next.
Hannah hated the not knowing. It brought back too many bad memories.
She reached the buggy and, as always, said, “Denke, Gideon. I guess I’m not quite ready to harness Clover myself.”
“It makes no trouble. I would prefer to keep doing it for you,” he said with a finality that didn’t surprise her.
She nodded and got in, repeating, “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Ja.” But he didn’t step back. “You were a help with the kinder, when they were upset.”
Surprising herself, she said, “I know what it feels like to hear other people whispering about you at school. Or even saying awful things to your face.”
A frown creased Gideon’s forehead. “Why did that happen to you?”
She shrugged, as if to tell him it hadn’t been a big deal then, and certainly wasn’t now. When that, of course, was a lie.
“We were always poor. I had to wear dirty clothes sometimes, and there were stretches when I got the free school lunch because Mom couldn’t afford to give me money for hot lunches, and there was nothing in the house for me to take. Usually it was something like a peanut butter sandwich. Everyone who saw me eating knew I was one of those kids. A few times, one of Mom’s men hit me, and I had to hide bruises.”
He looked stunned at that, or perhaps at her entire speech. Kindness and charity, qualities that mattered to the Amish, had been notably missing in much of her childhood.
“She ran away from Samuel for men who would hit a kind?” he asked incredulously.
“That’s one thing she didn’t put up with, not violence aimed at her or me. But when she left them, we’d have to move again and start all over.” In her recent impassioned speeches, Jodi claimed Samuel had hurt her. The fact that running away from him fit her pattern introduced some doubt in Hannah’s mind. Doubt she hated to entertain.
She had no idea why she’d just told Gideon all this. Because she’d sensed his humiliation at the stories being passed around at school?
“I guess I grew a thick skin, eventually. Ah . . .”
“I know what that means.” He rolled his shoulders in an unusual betrayal of his discomfort before saying abruptly, “I think tomorrow I should walk Rebekah and Zeb to school so I can talk to Tabitha.”
Telling herself she was just as glad he hadn’t felt an obligation to express sympathy, Hannah pulled herself back from hurtful memories to the current situation.
“That might be a good idea, although it will embarrass them if she says anything to the class in general.”
He nodded. “I’ve decided I should speak to our bishop next. Better he should talk to the parents than me.”
Was he asking for her opinion? From the way he watched her, she thought he might be. “Talking to the parents individually would be really awkward. They might feel like you’re challenging them, on top of criticizing their kinder. Some people would get defensive.”
Gideon nodded, turned away, and strode toward the house.
He planned to keep his secrets, then. Twitching the reins to start Clover in motion, she asked herself why she’d thought for a minute he would tell her what he hadn’t wanted his own kinder to know.
She wished she didn’t have an uneasy feeling that Zeb, at least, had noticed the gaps around the little his daad had been willing to tell them.
* * *
* * *
Not liking to waste half a workday, Gideon had driven his kinder to school a little early and spoken privately to Tabitha. Only now, on his way to town, did he realize how difficult that had been. Ja, she was the teacher, but he didn’t like having to share painful events from his past with a woman . . . ach, not quite young enough to be his daughter, but closer than he liked. If she’d been ten years older, seasoned by life, he might have talked to her for more than five minutes. As it was, he told her no more than he had Zeb and Rebekah.
He could have waited until evening to meet with Amos Troyer, but then he would have had to ask Hannah to stay late or taken the kinder with him. He wouldn’t want her to have to drive home in the dark. Anyway, it was a rare day that Amos couldn’t step away from his business for a few minutes to speak with a member of the church.
The bishop was actually behind the counter of his thriving bulk-food store when Gideon came in through the front door. Just done ringing up the purchases of an Englisch couple on an old-fashioned cash register, he nodded at Gideon while chatting amiably with them. After they left, he came to Gideon.
“Are you here to shop?”
“No, Hannah has done all of our shopping since she started. You may have seen her.”
“Ja, I have. Loading her purchases in the back of her car.”
Gideon felt an instinctive need to defend her. “She drives it each weekend when she comes into town to see her Englisch grandparents. I think she isn’t yet confident enough to take a horse and buggy onto busier streets.”
Amos chuckled. “I’m not surprised. I passed her one day, out with Samuel’s buggy and mare. I waved, but she was concentrating so hard, she didn’t see.”
Gideon grinned. “The first day she came to work in the buggy by herself, she was shaking, so scared.”
“Ach, we’d be frightened if we had to drive a car on the highway,” Amos said tolerantly. He glanced toward the counter, where an Amishwoman had planted herself after placing her few selections to be tallied. “Come in back with me. I’ll send Obie out to wait on any customers.”
He did greet the woman on the way back, saying someone would help her in just a minute. Obie, a scrawny Amish boy with acne, abandoned a carton half-emptied and hurried to the front, leaving Gideon and Bishop Amos in a cavernous space with a huge door that currently stood open as if a shipment was expected or had just been received. Boxes towered along walls, smaller ones filling rows of metal shelving. No break room—three metal chairs had been set up in a corner by a whiteboard on the wall that displayed a hand-scrawled work schedule.
Amos waved Gideon to a chair and sat himself. “What troubles you, Gideon?”
Gideon was glad that, when he first moved to Missouri, he’d told Amos some of the reasons he’d chosen to leave his former church district. Ja, he had kept his guilt and doubts to himself, but he had even been frank about the tongue-lashing from his former bishop he’d been compelled to accept with bowed head. Perhaps he had earned it, but he’d needed something besides a heavy dose of blame when he was grieving for the wife he’d loved and for all his kinder had lost. Later, he could have listened to criticism of his own choices in the spirit of Gelassenheit, but just then, hurting, he’d needed support.
Now Gideon repeated what older students at school had been whispering yesterday. “Maybe not whispering,” he amended. “Talking loud enough for Rebekah and Zeb both to hear.”
Creases on Amos’s well-worn face deepened.
“I hadn’t heard any of this.”
“I assumed you hadn’t, but these kinder must have heard these rumors from their parents. Why did nobody come to ask me about what they’d been told instead of spreading gossip? I know I’m a newcomer—”
“You’re a member of our church district.” Amos rarely interrupted, but he made an exception this time. “You’ve been generous with your time and money for those who needed help, kind to some of our more difficult members.” Not some: Esther Schwartz. “I will certainly speak to the parents. If you find there are others, let me know.”
“It’s likely all the other students heard the same things Rebekah and Zeb did, and will go home to tell their parents. The one blessing is that the younger ones won’t pay attention.”
Sharp brown eyes examined him. “Is there any truth to these stories beyond what you’ve told me?”
Throat tight, Gideon squeezed out what he must say. “You know my wife’s friend was speeding and caused the accident. She hit another car head-on. That driver died, too. He was a teenage boy, an Englischer. At first the police assumed he’d been speeding, a new driver and young, but they can map what happened by rubber the car tires leave on the road. It was Leah’s friend who was driving too fast, who crossed the yellow line.” Here was the part he hadn’t said. “She was drunk.”
Amos blinked and sat back. “Your Leah?” he asked, after a minute.
“They had no reason to test her blood, since she wasn’t driving. She was a modest, loving woman, a good wife.”
“She must have known her friend had been drinking.”
Finding Hope Page 18
