Davey's Daughter (21 page)

So young, she thought as tears slipped down her cheeks. As they talked, Sarah was shocked to discover the couple was named Andrew and Caroline Walters, Ashley’s true biological parents.

“You, you aren’t separated?” she asked softly.

“No. Oh no. Ashley came to Pennsylvania for college. She was estranged from Andrew and me.”

Caroline was suddenly overcome with emotion, dabbing daintily at her tears. “I know this sounds lame, but she literally got in with the wrong crowd. We talked sometimes, but the sad part is there wasn’t much we could do.”

They talked for awhile, the Walters longing to learn all they could about their daughter’s last years. Then the Beilers stepped aside as a few people from the farmer’s market made an appearance.

Where was Harold from the leather goods stand? He was the one Ashley had claimed was her father. Confused, Sarah turned to greet Tim, the owner of the farmer’s market.

Tim then said hello to Levi, who watched his face with curious eyes, both hands clutching the brim of his hat. But Levi would not open his mouth to acknowledge Tim’s greeting.

Bewildered, Tim asked Sarah if Levi was mute.

“No. Oh no. He was told to be quiet at the viewing and then he’ll be allowed to go to McDonald’s.”

Levi nodded, his eyes sparkling.

“Big Mac!” he mouthed, then checked hurriedly to see if Dat or Mam had overheard his breach of contract.

Quietly, the Beiler family moved on together, leaving the Walters to greet the handful of well-wishers and acquaintances.

Confused and sorrowful, Sarah walked back to the van.

“I’m just so glad she has parents to take care of her burial. It seems less devastating somehow,” Mam mused quietly.

“But she said her parents were separated,” Sarah said, her voice unsteady, troubled.

Dat was true to his word, and Levi enjoyed his sandwich, complete with the highly-regarded French fries and ketchup and a large Coke to boot, which he enjoyed to the fullest. Then he tossed and turned the remainder of the night, finally getting up and helping himself to a spoonful of Maalox and a long drink of water, keeping Mam awake until three o’clock in the morning.

Even Dat was grouchy at the breakfast table, drinking cup after cup of black coffee, his thoughts a thousand miles away. Finally, he spoke.

“It wouldn’t be so bad, if we could only have obtained more information about these fires. Clearly, Mike is terribly afraid of us.”

“I don’t think he had anything to do with them,” Sarah said.

“What makes you say that?” Dat growled, setting them all a bit on edge.

“Ashley as much as told me. I think he was mischievous about them, enjoyed scaring people, even wanted us to think it was him, but he was too immature, too childish. I don’t think he’d be brave enough to do something like that.”

“But the bottom line is still that our only source for information about the fires is gone.”

“You didn’t want to question her.”

Abruptly, Dat left the table, which was completely unlike him. Sarah knew Ashley’s death troubled him more than he would admit, which proved to Sarah that he struggled the same as everyone else, desperately wanting an end to the danger of yet another fire.

A heavy cloud of oppression hung over the rest of the family. Suzie kicked the table leg, saying she didn’t feel well and asking why she had to go to school if she was sick.

Levi ate oatmeal and bananas, belched loudly, and didn’t ask to be excused until Priscilla reminded him sharply.

He said it was the Maalox.

Sarah went to school with a heavy heart, her face pale, her shoulders drooping.

She told her pupils about the accident, about knowing Ashley, and was gratified when even the older boys seemed interested. It was a small start at building a relationship with them, but it was at least a start.

At recess, the heavy, red-faced little girl named Leah came up to Sarah’s desk, leaned across it, and watched her, the bright, beady gaze never leaving Sarah’s face. Sarah put down the red ballpoint pen she was using and looked at her.

“What can I do for you, Leah?”

“Nothing.”

Quickly, Leah swept away. Sarah raised her eyebrows and went back to work, checking the first grade’s penmanship papers.

Five minutes later, Leah was back, watching Sarah’s face.

“What?” Sarah asked.

“You know Ashley?”

“Yes.”

“She got eggs from us.”

“She did?”

“Yes. Her and Mike.”

“Really?”

“Yes, they did. She gave me some bubble gum.”

Quickly, Leah looked around to make sure no one saw her.

“Here.”

She thrust a small bag containing a very squashed chocolate cupcake in Sarah’s direction. Her small bird-like eyes gazed steadily into her face before she opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I pity you, because Ashley died.”

Then she catapulted her round form away from the desk, shot out the door, and hid her face the remainder of the day.

Every small moment like that was a rosy victory for Sarah, making each day at the teacher’s desk worthwhile. She ate every bite of the chocolate cupcake, finding it delicious, a symbol of the effort she put into each day, a small reward perhaps, but a huge accomplishment. What an angry little girl Leah had been that first day!

They made candy canes from red and white construction paper and hung them from paper chains, planning to stretch them from the center of the classroom to the four corners. Sarah decided to asked the two eighth-grade boys to do it.

“Sam, would you and Joe like to hang these paper chains?”

There was no response. Both boys slouched in their seats, reading tattered copies of old books brought from home, questionable paperbacks Sarah did not have the nerve to discuss.

No use opening that can of worms just yet, she thought wryly.

“Sam?”

Joe raised his hand.

“We usually don’t help the teacher.”

“This isn’t usually.”

No response.

Sighing, Sarah let it go but felt as if everything she’d accomplished had just slipped out of her grasp, leaving an oily residue that she could not wash away.

Teaching school was a trail with so many highs and lows, the highs like Mt. Everest, the lows an unexplainable abyss, a place full of hopelessness.

Six weeks, and what had she accomplished? Worse yet, five barn fires, and they were back to square one with Ashley gone. Sarah folded her arms on her desk, laid her head on them, and closed her eyes.

S
arah spent the following Saturday evening at the Widow Lydia’s, her house cozy and warm, every corner lit with scented candles for Christmas.

There were wrapped presents on the old library table, and homemade bells hung from the window blinds.

They’d cut egg cartons apart, folded aluminum foil over the small cups, strung them on red and green yarn, and tied red ribbon around them.

They had just finished another batch of caramel popcorn, adding pecans to it this time. The house was infused with buttery, sugary smells. Lydia’s face was glowing, her hair gleaming smoothly in the lamplight.

She confided in Sarah, whispering behind a hand raised to her face, that she felt guilty, but this Christmas she was simply going all out.

She had spent almost thirty dollars for a set of Legos for Ben, she confessed. Sarah stepped back, surveyed Lydia’s face, and said that was fine, absolutely, not extravagant at all.

They made a double batch of Rice Krispie treats and decorated them with green and red icing, for Aaron, the toddler.

Sarah was washing dishes, thinking how easily marshmallow succumbed to hot water, when someone spoke, directly behind her.

“Hello, Sarah.”

Turning, her hands still in the dishwater, she found Lee Glick, his blue eyes conveying his gladness at seeing her there. Sarah wanted to fling herself in his arms, right then and there, but she slowly took her hands from the dishwater and dried them on a towel before she said, “Lee.”

“How are you?”

“Oh, I’m okay. You heard about Ashley Walters?”

A great shout went up when Melvin suddenly appeared, his shirt the color of new grass in spring, his balding head shining like a freshly washed egg, his nose as crooked and dear as ever.

“Surprised you, right?”

Sarah laughed but acknowledged that yes, he had, while she blushed furiously. Melvin howled with glee, savoring her embarrassment.

Lydia stood shyly in the background, her eyes giving away the beating of her heart.

Melvin turned to her, and the look they exchanged needed no words, a rare and beautiful thing.

Omar had gone with his friends for the weekend, so Anna Mae and Rachel were thrilled to have company, making coffee, serving pretzels and cheese, obviously enamored with Melvin.

He held court with a kingly air, seated on a throne of his own imagination. To say he was in his element was an understatement, and Sarah watched him, marveling at the change in her cousin.

The candles flickered, the coal stove glowed, the smell of freshly-brewed coffee mixed with sweet smells from the kitchen. Sarah’s happiness was complete when Lee turned and smiled at her, his face warm and filled with more than a welcome.

When they discussed the latest event pertaining to the barn fires, Melvin said there was no doubt in his mind that they had missed their chance by taking Dat’s advice instead of allowing the police to interrogate that girl, and now look, she was dead.

Sarah mentioned the fact that Mike was still around. Lydia agreed. It might be worth a try.

Lee became somber, slouched in his chair only a bit, saying nothing as Melvin waved his hands for emphasis, explaining in his ringing voice why he thought the law should know about Ashley and Mike.

“You know, the police are a lot more intelligent than we are. They’ll know which steps to take, which way to go. I don’t know why your dat can’t see that.”

Sarah shrugged. “I thought he put you in your place.”

“He did for awhile, but I got so upset at Enos Miller’s it wasn’t funny. They are the nicest couple, so simple and humble and God-fearing.”

“About the opposite of you,” Sarah teased.

Melvin made a face, while Lydia’s eyes worshipped him.

Far into the night, they sat around Lydia’s table, playing board games as the candles burned low in their glass jars. The coal fire needed stoking, and the children dropped off to sleep, one by one making their way upstairs to their soft beds to snuggle beneath thick comforters.

Melvin suggested they stay awake till four o’clock, then all do chores together. He didn’t have church this Sunday. Lee did, but he said it was alright to skip services, because he had other important matters to attend to
—
milking Lydia’s cows.

Melvin really laughed about that, winking broadly, and Sarah slapped him, just for fun. The cousins exchanged a knowing look, and Sarah was rewarded by the warmth, the approval of Lee, in Melvin’s eyes.

In the month of January, all of Lancaster County turned into a vast, arctic landscape dotted with white barns, farmhouses, and clusters of multi-colored homes forming quaint, homey villages.

Farm wives stoked the fires. Cornmeal mush sizzled in cast iron frying pans, liverwurst heated beside it in sturdy saucepans, fuel for shivering, hungry men when chores were finished.

In some of the new, more modern Amish homes, the husbands grabbed their lunch pails and thermoses, said good-bye to their wives, and were whisked away in diesel-powered pickup trucks, going their ways with framing or roofing crews to build townhomes, offices, garages, homes for a steadily-growing population centered around the Garden Spot of America.

It was called progress.

Others hurried off to welding shops or cabinets shops, manufacturers, builders of fine, timeless furniture or farm equipment. They wolfed down quick breakfasts of bagels or cold cereal, while the hungry farmers ate their fried mush and liverwurst, eggs and stewed crackers, and home cured bacon.

When the sun rose, spreading light and a thin warmth across the land, hundreds of Amish households were up and moving, making a living however they could, blessed to be dwelling in a land where freedom of religion was practiced and respected.

Almost every Sunday morning, a minister somewhere would mention the fact that the congregation could travel to church with their horses and buggies, freely and openly, worshiping without fear. Their forefathers in Switzerland had crept through dark fields at night, worshipped secretly in caves, were hounded, jailed, burned at the stake for this. This freedom.

And what were we doing with this wonderful, God-given thing?

That was the question that clung to David Beiler’s conscience, wrapped tightly around it, never quite allowing him to let go in the face of a persistent adversary
—
the towering flames that had devoured too many Amish barns in Lancaster County over the past few years.

The forefathers,
die alte
, had ingrained in them the principle of nonresistance, taking the verses in the Bible quite literally.

They were Jesus’s own words, weren’t they? Love your enemies, do good to them that hate you, pray for those who use you and persecute you.

Liebe deine fiende
(Love your enemies). There was no way around that.

He imagined that if spirits could be seen by the human eye, comprehended by the lowly understanding of mere mortals, a civil war of sorts would be raging in the frigid air today, on one of God’s wonderful mornings.

For some reason, the burning of Enos Miller’s barn had set off a fresh wave of indignant wrath. After coming together in unity for the barn raising, brother again rose against brother in fresh battles of opinion as verbal swords sliced through the air, and harmful charges and feints were executed.

Sisters days and quilting days and market stands became part of the darkness of verbal combat, as mothers, friends, sisters, and cousins voiced their opinions about the barn fires, the spirit of disagreement as thick as pea soup.

Bent and aged, their thin white hair almost completely hidden by their large white coverings, old
mommies
(grandmothers) shook their heads and said among themselves, “It wasn’t always so.”

Women were taught to be silent, obedient, and if they had anything to say, to say it to their husbands. And here were these young women, laughing uproariously, devising ways of catching the arsonist, including steel-jawed traps, among other outlandish devices.

They couldn’t help it if their shoulders shook silently with mirth, though, could they?

David heard of these accounts from Malinda, who attended sisters days and quiltings all through January, coming home with her shoulders stooped with care, but often a twinkle in her eye as well.

For one thing, their two daughters, Ruthie and Anna Mae, were the works! Malinda just didn’t know where they got their outspokenness. They claimed that if the Amish pooled their resources and paid for a private detective to follow Ashley Walter’s boyfriend around, the fires would come to an end, and they meant it.

When Mam had protested, they said a private detective and a lawyer were two very different things. It was ridiculous, in this day and age, they said, taking this suffering like sitting ducks. No wonder he kept right on burning barns. Nobody even tried to do anything about it. And they were their own daughters saying this.

The next morning, David Beiler absentmindedly cut the baler twine on a bale of straw with his Barlow pen knife, then hung it carefully on the large nail pounded into the post for that purpose. He took up a block of straw and threw it into the horse trough. He was rewarded by a nicker from Fred.

The winter sunlight found its way through the dusty windows, and he reached up to turn out the propane lantern, then made his way across the cow stable, into the milk house, still wet with steam from the scalding, hot water Sarah had used to scour the milking machines.

The fact that she was still here on the farm, living in peace and harmony with her family, washed over him and infused his thoughts with gratefulness, engulfed his spirit the way the steam warmed the milk house.

God had delivered them with a great and mighty hand, as He had with the children of Israel in days of old, and it still had not ceased to amaze him.

But why was God waiting so long about the barn fires? Did He allow them to continue because of the
tzvie-drocht
(dissension)
—
the backbiting, the disharmony, the hateful attitudes? Have mercy on us, David begged as he stepped out of the milk house into the blinding light of the morning sun.

Seated at the breakfast table, smelling of the strong lava soap he’d used to wash his hands and face, David bowed his head. His wife and children followed suit as they clasped hands in their laps and thanked God for the good food spread on the table, then raised their heads and promptly began passing dishes and platters.

Levi was cold. He announced in grumpy tones that no one had
fer-sarked
the fire, and his toast was burnt.

“Just a little dark, Levi,” Mam said gently around a mouthful of sausage and egg.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Malinda,” he snapped.

Priscilla burst out laughing, spraying orange juice across her plate. She choked, coughed, covered her mouth with her hand, and went to the sink for a paper towel.

David Beiler smiled broadly, caught Sarah’s eye, and winked. Sarah smiled widely, winked back.

Suzie said, “Don’t boss Mam, Levi.”

“Mam should swallow first, then talk. That’s what she says to me.”

Suzie looked at Levi without smiling, and he returned her look steadily, unblinking, before saying, “Did you hear what I said?”

Suzie nodded, and Levi tucked into his eggs and sausage, stopping only to tell Mam the toast was so burnt there were little black things smeared in the butter, and he didn’t like that. She should be more careful, making toast.

Dat told Levi it would be a great idea for him to make toast. He could pull his chair over to the gas stove, put the homemade bread on the broiler, and keep checking it until it was just the right shade of brown, then turn the oven off and remove it.

Levi’s eyes turned bright and cunning, and he saw the opportunity to show off his ability as a helper in the kitchen, latching onto the idea like a pit bull, never letting go. All day long, he begged Mam for the opportunity to make toast until she relented, and he ate perfect toast for lunch, as a snack, and for supper.

While Levi was either making toast, thinking about it, or eating it, Sarah was fighting her own private battle at school. Her courage fled completely when Hannah Stoltzfus brought her sister to visit the school, sitting in the back of the classroom, two sentries of disapproval, every bit as formidable as hungry vultures. Why had they come?

Sarah’s hand shook as she called first grade to arithmetic class, attempting to hide the fact that she’d noticed anything amiss.

At recess, Hannah fluttered up to Sarah’s desk, her face flushed, her sister firmly in tow. The color in her face was high, her eyes popping, as if her high blood pressure was actually pushing on her eyes, shoving them up against her glasses, which were spattered with grease.

Her old sweater was torn at the seam on one shoulder, and white lint clung to the front like dandruff. Her stockings sagged over her large, black Sketchers, so inappropriate for a woman her age, but Hannah’s choice for comfort.

“Sarah! My, oh. I’m surprised how well you teach.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said coolly.

Her sister nodded her head in agreement, all her chins wobbling as she did so.