Davey's Daughter (7 page)

Dat had a lantern, Omar a powerful flashlight. They gave the girls a battery lamp and instructions, their faces tense with the reality of this night.

“We’ll stay within the farm’s boundaries. If we don’t find her, we’ll have to call 911. You girls search the house first.”

Priscilla whimpered, an almost inaudible sound, but Sarah heard it and reached out to take her hand.

“Do you….Would you rather go back home?”

“No. I want to stay with you.”

Quietly, not wanting to wake the children, they tiptoed down to the basement, holding their breaths. They held the lantern high, the white light casting weird shadows on the aged walls. The paint was peeling, and greenish mold grew along the bottom of the stone walls.

A pile of empty potato bags almost stopped their heartbeats. Sarah kicked them aside, relieved.

The basement produced nothing. There was no sign of anyone having disturbed anything at all, so they tiptoed back up the dusty staircase. They searched the kitchen, living room, the main bedroom, even beneath the unmade bed. Then they inched their way upstairs.

“We can’t wake the children.”

“I know.”

“The attic?”

Would they be strong enough to face something as horrifying as….? Sarah refused to think the word. She wouldn’t.

Turning the old, porcelain knob on the attic door, Sarah grimaced as it squeaked loudly. Then she stepped cautiously on the first old stair tread, which groaned forcefully. Hoping for the best, they made their way steadily up the stairs, every step sending out a new and strange squeak or groan, until they reached the top where they stood together, their breathing inaudible.

Sarah held the battery lantern up and sighed. Boxes, bags, old furniture, torn window blinds. There was nothing of value, but the huge jumble of things could hide a person well. The rafters were low and dark with age. Nails had been pounded into them, no doubt having held hams and onions and strings of dried peppers in times past.

“You hold the lantern,” Sarah whispered.

Priscilla obeyed and held it high as Sarah moved boxes and bags and got down on her knees to search beneath the eaves. Priscilla’s large, frightened eyes searched the rafters, thinking the unthinkable.

Suicide.

God, we’ve come this far. Please stay with us.

When Sarah yelped in alarm, Priscilla clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the shriek behind it, but it escaped around her fingers. She couldn’t hold back the high-pitched scream.

No matter now, Sarah thought resolutely. They’d have to know. Her hand had made contact with a thin form lying behind an old quilt frame. She was on her back, her face turned to the side, her skin translucent, her eyes closed.

Sarah crawled closer and put an ear to Lydia’s chest. She raised exultant eyes to Priscilla, who was now trembling.

Muffled bumps and cries from below told them of the children’s rude awakening by the awful sound in the night.

“She’s warm! She’s breathing. Lydia!”

Sarah shook the limp shoulders gently.

“Beside her,” Priscilla said.

Sarah’s eyes took in the bottle of ibuprofen. The cheap brand from Walmart. Equate. Suddenly it angered her, and her mind refused to accept this bottle of pills lying empty, the cap carefully replaced.

“Get Dat! Tell the children to be quiet.”

She guessed anger was a good replacement for fear. It could get her through the worst of times if it had to. Sarah was braced up by it, strong because of it, as Dat and Omar pounded up the stairs, their eyes wide, the fear mixed with relief, and, yes, anger.

“Let’s get her down,” Dat barked.

“Omar, call 911. Now.”

“On my cell phone?”

“However.”

In his moment of terror, he wasn’t thinking straight, Sarah knew. It was only later that she allowed herself a small smile, thinking of Omar asking her dat, the minister, if he should use his cell phone. Cell phones were forbidden instruments of encroaching technology, but they were used by many of the youth and some older people as well.

Grunting, Dat reached for Lydia’s still form, pulling her away from the eaves and instructing Sarah to hold her below her knees. He’d take the shoulders.

Sarah was not sure she could carry this poor creature down the attic stairs. Even a thin woman was dead weight in that state.

She hesitated.

“I…I don’t know.”

“You can do it, Sarah.”

Together, they inched their way down the creaking attic stairs. Lydia’s head rolled to the side awkwardly, her legs flopping on either side of Sarah’s hands and her feet slapping randomly against the steps.

“
Kinna. Bleivat drinn!
(Children. Stay there!)” Dat called, his voice loud with authority. They were crying, asking questions, and Anna Mae refused to obey, charging through the doorway of her bedroom, crying uncontrollably.

“She’s sick,” was all Dat said.

“Come, Anna Mae. Come with me. The ambulance is coming.”

Priscilla slid an arm about Anna Mae’s shoulder, explaining, consoling. Her sobs turned to sad, hiccupping whimpers.

By the time they’d finally reached the living room on the main floor, the high, wailing sirens were already audible.

Sarah met Dat’s eyes, visibly relieved. They both looked at Lydia, her frame swallowed by the old green sofa, the holes torn in the upholstery covered by a crocheted afghan, discolored from frequent washings in the old washing machine.

A sadness spread through Sarah’s heart as the knowledge of this pitiful situation spoke to her. Lydia looked so young, her skin pearl white, her wide eyes closed, her mouth still determined, strong.

How old was she?

Omar was seventeen years old.

Please let her live, dear God. Just let her live. Sarah wasn’t aware that she was praying until she saw Melvin come charging through the front door, and she burst into tears of shock and relief all at once.

Sarah had forgotten that Melvin belonged to the fire company now. Since the barn fires had started, he was determined to be of value to the community. But nothing had ever prepared him for this sight, and he had to step aside, grappling with the overwhelming emotion, and let the trained personnel take over.

Lydia was hospitalized, and the deadly quantity of ibuprofen removed from her stomach by the greatest invention, the stomach pump. Her parents were at her side, the beginning of a deep remorse entering their hearts.

Sarah and Priscilla stayed with the children, and they talked with Melvin and Omar for hours. Anna Mae hovered around the conversation, her face white with fear and disbelief.

Melvin listened, dumbstruck for once in his life. It was an uneasy situation for him, being cornered by an unbelievable situation and rendered helpless without knowing what to say. He had never in his life felt the kind of pity that swelled up inside him and took away every other emotion. Even his bravado was gone and his skill of planning, of moving and shaking. He simply did not know what should be done, except maybe get down on his knees and admit to God that he didn’t understand how he felt, and He’d have to make it plain.

I
n the morning, when Sarah was frying cornmeal mush for the children and Priscilla was helping Omar do chores, there was a soft knock on the door, and Matthew entered.

Sarah was giddy with happiness to see him. She lay down the spatula she was holding, her eyes weary with the events of the night, and said, “Good morning!”

“Sarah!” Matthew greeted her as joyfully. Without a thought of the children, she flew into his arms and was held, secure in a haven of comfort.

Her Matthew. Still unbelievable, after these months of dating.

“Tell me what happened,” he said, his face alight with interest, his eyes soft and kind, such a rich brown and filled with caring.

Sarah obeyed. She spoke quietly to protect the children from more fear, then turned to the stove to finish breakfast.

Matthew listened and then responded kindly but with a sort of petulance, inquiring about her having to be there.

“Oh, we’re neighbors, Matthew. Omar came to our door.”

“Every time there’s a scene, and that seems to be happening with a certain regularity, there you are in the middle of it. Why?”

His tone was high, anxious, mocking.

Sarah remained at the stove, her back turned, and she stood very still, breathing slowly, gathering control.

Turning, she said levelly, “It’s my duty. My parents always stress that.”

“Well, mine don’t.”

There was nothing to say in response.

As if he had suddenly been given a new license, he began to barrage Sarah with his ideas about the barn fires.

Quite clearly, these fires brought out what was in the Amish, which wasn’t very much, he said. He rambled on about this woman who was so worldly she’d attempt suicide and how Mervin was drowned by the devil’s hand.

“I mean, Sarah, look around you. God is trying to say something here. All this isn’t happening to the Mennonites or the other churches around us that are much more spiritual.”

A dagger of fear shot through Sarah, but she quickly gathered her composure and calmly broke eggs into a pan. She bent gracefully to lay slices of bread in the broiler of the old gas stove.

“I think the Amish church is way out of line. All we think about is
ordnung
(rules). There’s a reason for these barn fires.”

Sarah slid the door of the broiler shut with her foot and gave it a small kick to make sure it closed all the way. Then she slid a spatula beneath a sizzling egg, still remaining quiet.

“Well, aren’t you going to answer?”

“Yes, Matthew. You have a point. Of course.”

He came over and stood a little too close to her. He whispered in her ear about how he wanted to kiss her, but there were too many eyes around. Then let himself out the door with a silly wave, leaving Sarah smiling foolishly at the eggs. She kept on smiling as the children sat around the table and ate their breakfast.

Oh, that Matthew was something. She sure hoped he wasn’t going to get some idea about leaving the church into his head, just because of the fires.

She watched as the teams began to arrive, the kindly women entering the kitchen, asking questions, clucking, caring. The police and private investigators came, asking questions, interrogating Omar, Priscilla, and Dat as well as herself.

They tried to remain as truthful as possible but knew, ultimately, that the real reason for the attempted suicide would have to come from Lydia herself.

The news reporters and journalists went wild with the nature of this story, the barn fires projected on TV screens across the nation, sensational half-truths filling the members of the Amish community with dread.

Where would it end? How much was simply too much?

At home again together, gathered around the kitchen table, Dat spoke at length, sparing his family nothing. He said these were hard times, spiritually as well as emotionally, and they would all need to remain steadfast in prayer and supplication and draw close to God to ask his guidance.

Levi said God was angry at Lancaster County, and everybody better sit up and take notice. Dat reprimanded Levi sharply, something so unusual even Mam looked surprised.

“God is allowing this to draw us together. Look at poor Lydia. A family in dire straits, robbed of a chance to have….” He stopped and broke down, his eyes filled with so much tender pity, Sarah imagined his eyes looked like God’s somehow.

Sarah, however, kept the small tidbit of Matthew’s attitude hidden. He was likely just going through a bad time, unable to do anything about these fires continuing and feeling helpless because of it. Bless his heart.

Despite the somber topic, Priscilla was beaming and smiling, unable to contain her excitement about the new barn Abner Fisher had just designed for the horses, those Belgians. She said if Omar didn’t mind, she’d like to work with them, and if she was allowed, she wouldn’t need another horse to replace Dutch.

“Priscilla,” Levi said forcefully.

“What?”

“You can’t go over there and work with Omar. He’s a boy.”

“I know. But his sister, Anna Mae, is there.”

“You’re not going,” Levi said.

Dat smiled widely and winked at Mam.

“We’ll see,” was all he said.

The Widow Lydia came home from the hospital. Sarah and Mam walked through the tender spring sunshine, carrying a freshly baked carrot cake made with pineapple, nuts, and raisins and covered with cream cheese frosting.

Lydia was propped up on pillows, the fresh, white pillowcases framing her thin, tired face. Without her glasses, she appeared so young. The light in her eyes was genuine now, a small flame of hope burned there, the deadness gone.

Her mother and father were both present, hovering about, finding her glasses, arranging her pillows, asking if she was cold, bringing a blanket, quietly wiping their own tears.

The outdoors hummed with activity, as usual, the projects still going on but with a difference since word had circulated of Lydia’s illness.

Tight-lipped wives packed their husbands substantial lunches, saying enough
ga-mach
(to do) was enough. They’d cook a good hot supper in the evening, but a packed lunch was enough for today.

At the end of the day, many of the wives raised their hands in dismay after finding all the food still in the Zip-loc bags. The men sheepishly admitted that the dinner had been catered again by the folks at Kentucky Fried Chicken.

There was no contest between a cold lunch or that chicken. All this, however, was spared the Widow Lydia. She remained in bed and talked, shared, and cried with her parents asking her forgiveness over and over. They had no idea it had been so bad, they really didn’t, and Lydia believed them. They made an appointment to go for extensive counseling at Green Pastures in Lebanon County, at David Beiler’s request.

Mam and Sarah left the cake, their hearts immeasurably relieved to see the healing in Lydia’s eyes. Again, the Amish folks as well as many of their English neighbors had rallied around the poor, the needy, the hurting, and the wounded in spirit, and life resumed its normal pace.

The trust fund at Susquehanna Bank grew to mammoth proportions, but Lydia did not know. She went back to her duties slowly, but she sat and cuddled little Rebecca and her thin, small Aaron most of the time. She thanked God for David Beiler, though he did not know that he had done anything at all.

The wind was a bit chilly when Mam asked Dat to hitch up Fred. She wanted to pick up her sister and go to Ez
sei
Mamie’s (Ez’s wife Mamie’s) quilting, over along Route 897.

Dat did his duty, and Mam sat happily on the driver’s side of the preacher’s
doch veggley
(carriage), took up the reins, and thanked her husband.

“Be careful,” Dat said. It was the same thing he always said, and Mam smiled.

The preacher’s carriage had no front, just a heavy, black canvas duster that those in the front seat pulled up over their laps. There were doors on either side to slide closed when the weather was inclement, but today Mam kept them open and enjoyed the brisk little winds that flapped the gum blanket and swirled about her face.

She wondered if all Amish carriages had been preachers’
doch vegglin
in times past. Probably, the way most things changed over time, the storm fronts (windows with a sturdy dash) were a new and modern addition at one time. That had probably followed on the heels of the market wagon, the heavy, versatile carriage used to haul produce or baked goods
—
wares of all kinds
—
to open air markets in Lancaster City.

Mam adjusted her black bonnet and was grateful for her shawl. The black, woolen square of fabric pinned securely around her shoulders guarded against the chill in the wind.

Turning into her sister’s driveway, she noticed the new growth of her hostas. The wide green leaves pushed the mulch away, new life springing from the earth everywhere, although Davey had told her it was still plenty wet to plant peas. She had the cold frame filled with early lettuce, onions, and radishes. She had checked them herself this morning and was surprised at the growth.

“Whoa.”

Fred stopped obediently and then pulled on the reins to loosen them. Mam watched the side door, eager to see her sister, Miriam. She emerged, pulling the door shut behind her, one hand going to her covering. As usual, she wore a black sweater, but no shawl or bonnet.

Lifting the gum blanket, Mam exclaimed, “Where’s your bonnet?”

Miriam plopped down on the seat, wiggled her shoulders, and said, “Boy, we fill up this front seat pretty snugly.”

Mam smiled and thought, you mean you do.

Miriam weighted a bit over two hundred pounds and frankly stated that fact to any who inquired. She’d been heavy all her life. She was who she was, she carried it well, and tough if someone thought she was fat.

“Where’s your bonnet?” Mam repeated.

“You know I hate bonnets.”

“Now, Miriam.”

“Sorry, Malinda. But I’m not a preacher’s wife.”

No, you’re not, Mam thought wryly, knowing her sister was undoubtedly not cut out to be one.

“Well, alright. I like my shawl and bonnet on a chilly day.”

They had gone a few hundred yards when Miriam said, “Poo!” and reached for the gum blanket, pulling it up well above her waistline.

“Should have worn your shawl and bonnet.”

Miriam shrugged and said the good, thick buggy blankets would keep her warm.

Fred trotted briskly. The two sisters talked nonstop, catching up on community news, family gossip, the highs and lows of raising large families, clucking, lending listening ears, always sympathetic, understanding. It was the way of sisters everywhere, confiding in each other, the trust so complete, so cushioned with unconditional love, that conversation flowed freely, unrestrainedly.

“How’s Sarah doing with her Matthew?” Miriam asked.

“Fine, I guess.”

“You don’t sound too enthused.”

“I’m not.”

“
Ach
Malinda. Come on. He’s quite a catch, and you know it. You’re just trying to be humble. Duh!”

“Miriam, I think looks is about as far it goes with that one.”

She held up one hand to hush Miriam.

“Let me have my say. I can’t talk like this to anyone else, not even my husband, who is always a pushover where Sarah is concerned.”

Mam stopped, looked at Miriam.

“Isn’t a pushover a baked item?”

“You mean a popover?”

They laughed heartily, rich chuckles of shared humor. Then Miriam told Mam if she didn’t watch her horse they were going to have a wreck, and she meant it. Mam said no they weren’t, she was a good driver, but Miriam didn’t really think she was. She just didn’t say it.

“Anyway, you were saying?”

“Oh, Matthew Stoltzfus.”

“Yes.”

“You know I think the world of Hannah. She’s my best friend. But she had those two boys long after her girls, and…” Mam’s voice became strong, forceful. “They’re both spoiled rotten!”

Miriam gasped. “Malinda! I can’t believe you said that!”

Mam sat up straight.

“Yes, I said that, and it feels good to be completely honest. She caters to those boys. She thinks they can do nothing wrong. And Matthew is less than ambitious. He flirts with any girl who will look at him, and there are plenty of them. I’m not convinced he loves Sarah at all. She’s just second best because Rose doesn’t want him.”

“Wow!” Miriam mouthed.

“Yes. It’s that bad.”

“Are you sure you’re not being too hard on Sarah?”

“No.”

“Boy, Malinda. You sound like someone I don’t know.”

“Well, don’t know me then. I’m just so sick of tiptoeing around Sarah and turning a false face decorated with an artificial smile. I know it’s not going to make a lick of difference what I say. She fancies herself in love with him.”

“Malinda! She is! That poor girl has always wanted Matthew.”

“Wanted and loved are two very different things.”

Miriam nodded.

“You are absolutely right.”

“I know I am.”

“Let’s not talk about this anymore. It makes me sick to the stomach. Your Sarah is such a nice girl. I know she deserves genuine happiness with an extra nice guy.”