Davey's Daughter (22 page)

As Hannah leaned close, Sarah was subjected to a decided odor of something fried emanating from her sweater that had likely hung from a hook in her
kesslehaus
for years without being washed.

Mam did the same thing with her everyday sweater, that ratty old black thing that served a multitude of purposes, but Sarah often grabbed it and threw it in the washer with the last load of denim trousers.

“Did you hear about Matthew’s wife?”

Just for a moment, Sarah steadied herself by placing her hands on her desk, before raising her eyebrows in question.

“Her name, you know, is Hephzibah, just like that Bible woman. Sarah, she’s such a good person. I feel as if Matthew has been rewarded for his life-changing conversion.

“Anyway, she is sick. She’s
unfashtendich grunk
(very sick). Matthew calls every day. They are in the hospital, and they can’t really find the cause of her fever. It just doesn’t go away.”

“Malaria?” Sarah asked.

“What do you know about that disease?” Hannah asked abruptly.

“Not much. I just know it’s a common disease in tropical climates, a mosquito-borne illness.”

“Are you telephoning Matthew?” The question was sharp, bitter, an arrow tipped with the poison of suspicion.

“Of course not.”

Hannah’s sister’s eyes widened, and she drew back as if to gain a better perspective to watch this interesting exchange.

“Well, don’t. He’s married now, and I know it’s very hard for you to give up. It always was. But you’ll be alright, in time. But just don’t call Matthew. It wouldn’t be right.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Sarah saw Joe push little Ben into the corner of the horse shed, heard the little boy’s terrified howls from inside the sturdy walls of the schoolhouse, and quickly asked to be excused.

She met a shaking little second grader, blood pouring from a nasty gash on his forehead, his eyes showing the pain and fear of having collided with a sharp metal corner, his nose and eyes running.

Herding him into the cloakroom, she moistened a clean paper towel and held it firmly to the wound and sat him on a folding chair as she examined the cut.

It was deep but not very long. She felt sure a firmly applied butterfly bandage and some B and W salve would begin the healing process just fine.

Hannah, however, insisted he be taken to a doctor. She knew Ben’s parents. She’d take him home, and his mother would want to take him. Why, that gash would leave an awful scar.

So she bundled up poor frightened Ben and trundled him out the door, clucking and going on all the while, her sister exclaiming and waving her hands, leaving Sarah with a discipline problem, a sour stomach, and a desperate need to run after Hannah and tell her to go home and stay out of her life, out of her business. And would she please never ever mention her son Matthew’s name to her again?

Courage eluded her the remainder of the day, driven away by Joe’s loud sneers, his swaggering shoulders, his demeanor challenging Sarah to try and do something about everything she’d seen.

He knew. He knew she’d seen him eating pretzels in class and pushing Ben on the playground. But her mind reeled from Hannah’s visit, her senseless accusation. It robbed her of the ability to confront Joe.

By the time the afternoon arrived, Joe had tried her patience to the limit, laughing, whispering, flirting with Rosanna in an unthinkably bold manner. When Sarah finished her third-grade English class, she said “Joe Beiler!” very firmly and very, very loudly.

He jumped up, snickering.

“You need to stay in for recess, so we can talk.”

A deathly silence folded itself over the classroom, the clock’s ticking suddenly magnified.

They had never heard their teacher speak in such a terrible voice.

When the pupils were excused for last recess, Sarah was actually surprised when Joe remained seated, as she had been prepared to watch him openly disobey and follow the others out the door.

Seated, but slouched as low as possible, he fiddled with his ruler, scraping it across his desk with a grating sound that jangled Sarah’s already harried resolve.

“Joe, you know you’ve been doing crazy things all day just to try my patience. What is up with eating those pretzels in class?”

He shrugged, became sullen, his eyes hooded.

“May I have an answer, please?”

“I didn’t have any breakfast.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? Surely you had time for a bowl of cereal.”

“Yeah.”

“Why did you push Ben?”

“He made me mad.”

“How? Joe, he’s only seven years old.”

“He’s a pest.”

“Not Ben. He’s afraid of everything.”

Suddenly, Joe sat up straight, his brown eyes flashing dark fire, and he burst out, his adolescent voice breaking into unmanly squeaks. “You sound exactly like my mam. ‘Shut up, shut up,’ she says. ‘They’re little. They’re only three or four.’ She hates me. You know why I ate pretzels? I had to finish hanging out the wash because she was fighting with my dat. So there.”

Ashamed, he turned his face away.

Sarah was speechless. She had never known a mother who would tell her son to shut up. Or argue so forcefully she couldn’t finish the laundry. And get her growing son no breakfast?

For a long moment, she watched Joe, saw the bad skin, the acne engraved in his quivering cheek. She looked into the eyes that appeared rebellious, brash, sneering, curtains of dark brown hiding pain and a ceaseless yearning for love, patience, and understanding from two parents who were blind to their son’s needs.

Sarah knew there were nine children in the Beiler family. Joe was the oldest at 13.

Still, he could have eaten the pretzels on his way to school.

“Joe, I’ll tell you what.”

Sarah sat in the adjoining desk and made him meet her gaze.

“Don’t do it again, okay? And try and be careful on the playground. Ben was hurt pretty badly. And I guess we have to learn to get along if we’re going to be stuck in the same schoolhouse until May, right?”

Joe shrugged, shifted his brown eyes.

She spoke to him about flirting with Rosanna, saying they were much too young for such things and was rewarded by a dark, painful blush creeping over his face.

“No speeding ticket this time, young man, just a warning,” she said, touching his shoulder.

That day was a memorable one, a turning point.

M
am paged through her vast array of seed catalogs, clucked, licked her thumb, slurped the lukewarm tea by her side, cleared her throat, scratched her arm, and did just about everything else Sarah could imagine that could completely annoy her.

She was seated at the kitchen table, towers of workbooks beside her, steadfastly plodding her way through them. The lamp hissed, and the cold air swirled around her legs as the mean January blast rattled the spouting at the corner of the house.

Priscilla was curled up on the sofa, reading, and Suzie looked as if she’d fallen asleep at the opposite end, a soft, navy blue throw tucked securely over her shoulders.

Levi was in the shower and had been for the past fifteen minutes, singing a loud, off-key rendition of “Silent Night,” a fragment of the old song lodging somewhere in his brain, a leftover from the holidays.

Dat was stretched out on the recliner, but the only thing Sarah could see was an open newspaper, the tips of his fingers, his legs, and stocking feet.

It was almost nine o’clock.

Sarah yawned, threw down her pen, shivered, and said loudly, “Priscilla, would you consider helping me check my books?”

Reluctantly, Priscilla lowered her book, eyed Sarah and the stack of books, and prepared to get off the couch. “I can, I guess.”

Mam mused out loud. “I think I’m going to try a different kind of pea this year. Sam King
sei
Arie said Green Arrows are the best, but I disagree. And instead of zinnias, I’m going to plant hardy salvia. I’ll start the seeds on the porch.”

The porch was Levi’s room. It was already decked out with Mam’s geraniums, dropping brown leaves all over the shelves, tedious to clean around. All the porch needed was dozens of tiny, square pots full of soil and minuscule seeds, waiting to be knocked over by large bumbling Levi, muttering to himself in the dark of night.

When they heard a loud knock on the door, it surprised all of them, including Dat, who lowered his paper, raising his eyebrows.

“This time of night?” he asked, to no one in particular, then pushed back the footrest, got up, and walked to the front door, laying the folded newspaper on the table beside Sarah’s stack of books.

When he opened the door, a whoosh of icy air was unleashed into the room, and Sarah drew her feet under the chair.

Sarah didn’t recognize any of the three Amish men, all dressed in long, woolen overcoats and black felt hats, heavy boots on their feet, their faces somber, mouths pinched in grim lines.

The family knew without being told to exit the room, except for Mam, who would be invited to listen if she desired.

The girls shivered their way through their showers, emerged steaming, and leaped into their cold beds, wearing soft socks and long flannel pajamas, homemade pieced comforters piled high on top of their blankets.

It was seriously cold at zero degrees with a brisk wind. All she remembered before falling asleep was the low murmur of voices, never changing, never stopping, a ceaselessly moving creek, a stream of opinions. She could gauge the nature of the visit by the looks on her parents’ faces in the morning.

Dat was quiet while they milked, came in late for breakfast, his face inscrutable, nodding briskly at Levi instead of giving his usual hearty “Good morning.” He picked at his food until he suddenly laid down his fork, looked around, and asked if anyone had overheard the conversation the night before.

Mam kept her face lowered. The girls shook their heads.

Levi stopped chewing, watched Dat’s face.

“Except you, Levi?”

“Well, Davey Beila!”

Clearly ashamed, he turned his attention to his plate.

Levi had been stuck in the bathroom without his pajama pants, the path to his bedroom a wide expanse in full view of the visitors. Levi became more undecided and upset by the minute, brushing his teeth over and over, combing his hair, stalling for time, till he finally gathered enough courage to call Dat and, in typical Levi fashion, announced very clearly that he was stuck in the bathroom without his pants.

“
Hop ken hussa kott
(I had no pants)!” he said now, justifying having had to ask Dat to leave the table, where his serious visitors were left trying to look as sour as they had before.

Dat chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “You could have gone to your room, Levi.”

Levi shook his head vehemently, “
Oh nay. Hop rotey knee
(Oh no. I have red knees).”

Everyone laughted. Suzie giggled and snorted, rapping her spoon on the table. Levi looked around appreciatively, glad he could make his whole family laugh, especially on a cold morning like this.

Dat continued telling his family about the visit from the three men. Melvin had spoken to the local police, asking for night patrol between Bird-in-Hand and Enos Miller’s in Georgetown. This had been picked up by the media, somehow, and became instantly blown out of proportion, followed by far-out assumptions and half-truths. A Philadelphia newspaper had run an article called “Non-resistant?” with Melvin’s picture and his words in bold, black print.

Sarah’s oatmeal turned tasteless, the thick creaminess sticking in her throat. Oh no.

So he had actually gone ahead and done it, this thing he’d long cultivated on his own, wagging a finger, threatening, the need to make his opinion known, overriding everyone’s advice.

Dat sighed. “So I suppose all the words I spoke to him were pretty much worthless.” Defeat was threaded through his voice.

Sarah felt a pity so keen it was physical. Her father had done so much for the community in the past years, treating his congregation with respect and kindness. He did not deserve this outright disobedience.

Anger welled up on the heels of her sympathy for Dat.

“That Melvin!” she said, her eyes blazing green.

Dat shook his head. “Sarah, you agree him sometimes, don’t you?”

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks.

“I do. Sometimes. But Dat, do we ever really know one hundred percent of the time how we really feel? Do you?”

“I think I do. I can’t move past turning the other cheek. Forgiveness. It’s the whole, complete message of Christ. It is.”

The last two words were spoken firmly, as if to reassure himself that this was really true.

Mam laid a gentle hand on Dat’s arm, picked nervously at the button on his sleeve.

“It’s hard, Davey. Truly hard to cling to a message of love when the fires have occurred, one after another. The verse in the Bible about forgiving your brother seventy times seven suddenly becomes almost impossible and hard to understand. How is it possible?”

“But it’s necessary.”

“Absolutely necessary.”

Priscilla’s eyes met Sarah’s and flashed. “It’s only going to get worse since Ashley’s death.”

“I don’t know about that,” Dat responded. “Remember the night of her viewing? I don’t believe that Mike is a criminal. He was clearly devastated by her death. It was only when I spoke to him, touched him, that he began crying like that. My heart went out to him, as I would have felt toward anyone in a time of grief.”

At school, the students spent recess sledding, playing snow games, building snow forts. Sarah joined her pupils during the lunch hour. The sun shone on most days, and icicles formed along the eaves, turning the brick schoolhouse into a picturesque building nestled in a grove of leafless, winter trees.

Wet stockings, boots, beanies, and gloves surrounded the propane gas heater that whooshed dutifully to life, true to the temperature on the thermostat, a modern-day wonder in Sarah’s opinion.

She clipped the smaller children’s gloves to the homemade PVC ring that hung from its hook above the heater, allowing the wet articles to dry quickly and efficiently.

Joe and Sam, and Rosanna and her cohorts still refused to go sledding or participate in any running games. They opted to slouch against the wall of the horse shed, although the snickering had all but disappeared. Occasionally, they would trip one of the smaller children or roll one in the snow, but Sarah never let it go, always following the misdemeanor with words of rebuke or having them spend time at their desks.

Her days went by fairly well, although she constantly had to balance discipline with common sense, patience, and encouragement, working to instill that elusive ingredient into the school
—
a willingness in most of the children to want to obey.

There were small victories, the smashed chocolate cupcake, Joe’s outburst of confession that day, Rosanna asking to go to the Strasburg Railroad, the long awaited trip that had gone very well without the stubborn upper grades after Sarah had refused to give in.

Not having a Christmas program had made Sarah sad at first, but she knew she had saved herself hours of frustration by giving it up.

Now she was secretly contemplating a spring program around Easter, waiting to see how the pupils would respond to discipline by the end of February.

Always, just when she felt she was gaining ground, some of the older pupils would get out of their seats to walk around without raising their hands, just to see how far they could go without Sarah calling them back to their seats.

Or their refusal to work on their scores would start all over again, leaving her in a black mood with no hope of ever changing anything.

Catherine, a sixth-grader, raised her hand just before school let out one day when Sarah’s head felt like an over-filled balloon, ready to pop.

“Yes, Catherine?”

“What are we doing for Valentine’s Day?”

Sarah stopped and thought.

“I forgot about Valentine’s Day.”

“We want to do something, don’t we?”

“Certainly. Of course. Any suggestions?”

“Stay home, like, all day,” Rosanna said loudly, looking around for any signs of approval.

When none were forthcoming, Rosanna slid to the side of her seat and leaned over as if she was searching for something in her desk. When she sat up, her face was red, and she was blinking self-consciously.

Sarah was thrilled, glad to see her discomfiture. It was, by all appearances, a good thing when no one acknowledged her wise cracks.

“So, any suggestions?” she asked, pointedly ignoring Rosanna.

“Pizza?”

“Hot lunch?”

“Valentine’s Day party?”

The suggestions came thick and fast, assaulting Sarah’s headache, but welcome, nevertheless. It showed enthusiasm. Even if it was for something as frivolous as a party, it was still enthusiasm.

So Sarah traveled home, happily chatting with her driver, took two Tylenol as soon as she came within reach of Mam’s medicine cabinet, and flopped on the recliner before she closed her eyes, breathing slowly, deeply, allowing the tension of the day to evaporate.

It was unusual to see Hannah striding up on the porch, her breath coming in short, hard puffs, her hair disheveled by the brisk wind, her coat pulled like sausage casing around her ample waist. As in former days, she didn’t knock, just pushed the door open a sliver and yelled, “Hey!”

Quickly Mam turned the gas heat to low, checking the potatoes with a deft hand, and wiped her hands on her apron as she hurried to the door.

“Hannah.”

“Malinda.”

The words were unspoken questions.

Mam paused, then said, “
Ach
Hannah, you don’t come anymore the way you used to. I miss that.” The words were a healing balm, covering old wounds, cleansing them of harmful bacteria, the kind that fester and grow, turning a good, steadfast friend into a foe.

“Well, Malinda, a lot of water has gone under the bridge since Matthew dated Sarah. It’s just awful, just awful now. His wife is dying. They say there is nothing more they can do for her. She has some sort of rare virus. They’ll lose the baby, too. He is completely devastated. I want him to bring her home for better medical care, but he can’t.”

Sarah felt her mouth go dry. The room spun, tilted, and righted itself as the blood drained from her face and her hands began a ridiculous quaking completely on their own.

What if Matthew’s wife passed away? That would leave him free to marry again, to return to the Amish, come back to the fold, resume life as…as what? As it was meant to be? Or as her heart still yearned? Who was to know?

Her thoughts out of control, Sarah gripped her hands to still their shaking. She squared her shoulders and bent her head, noticing the intricate pattern in the linoleum, the perfection of the copied pattern, so similar to real ceramic tile with grout between the squares.

Which was real? When was love genuine and when was it counterfeit, only a replica of the original product?

She heard Hannah’s voice, recognized Mam’s answers as Priscilla’s large green eyes watched them, as keen as a cat. But it was all secondary, as if in another realm. Would Matthew return?

“If she passes, I guess Matthew could return. But I can’t see him coming back to us, to be Amish again. He knows so much more about the Bible now. He knows more than our ministers, I’m sure. He can talk about the Bible for hours. He’s so interesting.

“Elam is afraid he’ll mislead me yet, but I told him, ach, what would an old biddy like me want in another church? I’m about as Amish as they come. You know, Malinda. But Matthew is just something else, so he is.”