Rebecca's Choice (8 page)

“Anything for me?”

“Don’t know. I was looking for my stuff.”

“Anything?”

“A late bill. Another get-well card.”

“That’s strange. That was months ago.”

“Thought so too.” John paused at the stair door.

“Let me know if I know the people.”

“Will do.” John opened the door and started upward. He took the steps two at a time.
My, it’s good,
he thought,
to be well again! I have much to be thankful for.

After entering his bedroom, he shut the door and threw the mail on his desk, a little piece of furniture in the corner, damaged and purchased at a reduced price from Miller’s Furniture. It suited him, he had always thought.

First he changed into work clothes for the evening chores he helped his father do, then he reached for the get-well letter. Its childish block letters fascinated him. One never knew what children would do.

Seated on the desk chair, he opened the envelope and slid the letter out. It wasn’t a card as he expected. The words were written in the same block handwriting as the address. He read slowly in disbelief.

Dear John Miller,

You don’t need to know who I am. Just consider me a friend trying to warn you. Also, this is not a prank. I have solid information from which to tell you this.

The girl you are dating, Rebecca Keim, is prepared to marry you for money. I know this may come as a shock, but it’s true. Her former schoolteacher lives in Milroy and has promised her a large sum of money if she will marry within the Amish faith. I just thought you should know this.

Signed,

Your friend

John burst out in laughter. This was a good joke, he thought. This was something his friend Will would do, or perhaps one of the others from the Amish youth group might come up with such a scheme. This was intended to scare him—a good joke, sent under the guise of a get-well card.

They all knew he had been ill, he figured, and were capable of such a practical joke. Imagine, he thought with a chuckle, Rebecca with plans to marry him for money. It was completely impossible.

She had stood by him while he was in the hospital, while he was threatened with paralysis, and had never complained. His mother could give witness to that. Miriam had been with Rebecca during the time he was unconscious and mentioned many times since how Rebecca never once faltered in her commitment to him.

This was one of the reasons his parents were so convinced Rebecca was the girl for him, their second child and only son. John laughed heartily again and headed downstairs, the letter in hand.

“Look at this,” he said, as he waved the letter around. “Some get-well card, my foot. It’s a joke.”

Miriam raised her eyebrows and took the letter. She read in silence as John waited.

“One of the boys,” John said when she was done. “Maybe Will playing his stunts.”

“She was at Emma’s funeral,” Miriam said quietly.

“Emma’s funeral? She said she would be.”

Miriam shrugged. “Maybe you ought to look into this.”

“Emma was her former schoolteacher,” John protested. “You can’t think there’s something to this.”

“Probably not,” Miriam agreed. “It would be mighty strange, I guess. How would someone find out, though? These things have to be announced through wills. I think that’s how money is handled in the English world. They use lawyers and all.”

“That’s crazy,” John said laughing. “It’s someone’s joke. Really, Mom, Rebecca would have told me.”

“Maybe,” Miriam allowed. “I guess you’ll find out if it’s true when you marry her.”

“She doesn’t hide things from me,” John said shaking his head. “I’ve got to start the chores.”

“She did spend a lot of time at the coffin. Stood there with her aunt Leona.”

“I can’t believe you,” John said over his shoulder, as he stepped out into the utility room. “Usually you have such good sense.”

On the way to the barn, his mother’s words affected him more than he expected. John remembered that Rebecca did hide things from him. At least in the past she did.

The memory came back to him from across that abyss, which was his hospital stay. He had gotten angry—very angry—just before the accident. For a moment his face flushed, his insides trembled, and the mindless terror ran through his head. He felt as if he had to run over to Rebecca’s place, reach out to hold on, and demand what was his, but he let go of the emotion.

Something had happened to him at the hospital. Something in the terror of those first conscious hours had cured him of his secret nightmares. He could trust this girl. She was worthy of it. If not, then he was worthy of it. He would not doubt again because of groundless fears.

An hour later he was back in the house, the chores done. His father was also back from his work at the harness shop. Miriam had the table set and supper ready. The speed with which his mother could prepare supper had always amazed him. It was just the way things were.

“Supper,” Miriam announced.

It was a call for both of them—to Isaac who sat in the living room,
The Budget
on his lap, and to him, the son who belonged here.

His father groaned, got up, and took his seat at the kitchen table. He waited as John washed his hands in the utility sink. His hands dry, John took his chair and copied Isaac and Miriam as they bowed their heads in prayer.

“John got a strange letter today,” his mother said, as she passed the soup bowl.

“Mom,” John told her, “it’s nothing.”

“Probably not,” Miriam agreed. “John thinks it’s someone playing a joke on him.”

“That sounds interesting.” Isaac paused, the soup dipper in his hand.

“That’s enough soup,” Miriam said to Isaac. “You know the doctor wants you to cut back.”

“How am I supposed to stop eating with your good cooking?” Isaac tried a smile first, then a chuckle, his ample body vibrating with his voice.

“No more jokes,” Miriam told him. “You know we’re both getting older. Your health is important to me.”

“I suppose so,” Isaac allowed, looking longingly at the soup dipper in his hand, before he let it slide back into the bowl. “Starved by love, that’s what I say.”

“It’s for your own good,” Miriam assured him. “We have to try. Doctors know what they are saying.”

“So what was this letter?” Isaac asked. Obviously he wanted to change the subject but wasn’t quite able to help himself. “A man could die with this little soup in his bowl.”

John chuckled. “Just a prank letter. That’s all.”

“Tell him what it said,” Miriam replied.

“I can’t quote it from heart,” John protested. “It was a joke.”

“Show it to him, then,” Miriam insisted. “I want your father to see it.”

John pulled the letter out of his pocket, now crumpled from his time at chores. Isaac opened the page and read silently.

“I see,” Isaac said.

“What do you think?” Miriam asked.

“John’s probably right,” he said.

John nodded his head and continued eating.

“What if it’s true?” Miriam asked.

“Would be pretty wild, I guess. She was with us at Emma’s funeral. I didn’t see anything unusual.” Isaac turned his attention back to his soup bowl.

“She’s not hiding anything,” John said. His tone matched his words.

“Good to see you trust her,” Isaac told him.

“What if it’s true?” Miriam repeated the question.

“Then I guess there would be trouble. Plenty of it. Don’t you think so, John?” Isaac paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth, his face turned in John’s direction.

“I can’t believe you two,” John said slowly. “This letter is a joke. Rebecca is getting no money for marrying me. I really think that.”

“I think that too,” Isaac said seemingly satisfied. “She’s a good girl.”

“I guess so,” Miriam agreed. “She did hold up well during John’s illness.”

“That she did.” Isaac nodded. “You couldn’t ask for better.”

Silence settled on the room, broken only by sounds of supper. The unmentioned thoughts hung over them.

That night John dreamed he was in the hospital again. He tried to awaken but couldn’t. He swam through a maze of silky white ooze, reaching for air to fill his burning lungs. His legs moved, he knew, because he kicked with all his might. But the feeling just wasn’t there.

Sounds boomed all around him, and he cried out. Words formed in his mouth, came out of his lungs, but no one could hear them. Terror filled his mind. He saw Rebecca’s face, saw it as if awakened from a dream, all hazy and unfocused. She smiled a twisted smile like she was hiding a deep malice in her heart.

He awoke with a yell, a groan from the depth of his soul. His body was covered with sweat under the blankets—chilled to the bone.

“No,” he moaned, “it’s a lie. I won’t believe it. This was just a dream.”

He lay still and stared at the dark ceiling until he calmed down. He glanced at his alarm clock, but it showed only a little after two o’clock. He would believe Rebecca, he told himself, no matter what happened. Peace came soon after that, and he drifted off to sleep.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

C
hurch had been held at Henry Hershberger’s place, over in the east district, and John was ready to leave. He had his buggy parked at the end of the sidewalk, a little early, he knew. Some of the young boys, just off the third dinner table, came out of the house, but there was no sign of Rebecca.

Last night Isaac and Miriam had still looked troubled. He had thought a trip over to the Keim place might be necessary to satisfy them, then had decided against it. What Rebecca would say about the letter, he was already certain of, and there was no sense in making a scene. His rush now was simply because he wanted to see her again.

He had seen Rebecca in church, from across the room, but that wasn’t the same as when she was in the buggy with him—sitting close, smiling that smile that lit up her face. She had a certain look in her eyes, which she focused on him sometimes in church and would have been enough to make Bishop Martin stroke his gray beard in grave concern.

John chuckled at the thought. He liked Bishop Martin and had always gotten along with him.

“You are a
gut
boy,” Bishop Martin had told him once. “Always have been. No church trouble. You are your father’s son.”

Words like that would warm any Amish boy’s heart, so John’s liking of the bishop became even deeper. Since from the time he could remember, Bishop Martin’s face had been a fixture. Sometimes he came over on Saturdays or even during the week to talk with Isaac. He came with his wife, Sarah, a soft spoken woman, when the occasion warranted the mixing of church business and a social event.

There was no doubt John admired the bishop. Perhaps that was part of the reason he never strayed far from the church
ordnung,
but John supposed there were other reasons. It just seemed the natural thing to him.

The horse behind him was impatient. If Rebecca didn’t come soon, he would have to move. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her, with her shawl wrapped tightly around herself and her bonnet pulled forward. He would have recognized her, he told himself, even if she wasn’t coming toward his buggy. His heartbeat quickened as he urged the horse slightly to the right, which made for an easier ascent up the buggy step.

“In a hurry?” she said, with one foot on the step and the other in the buggy.

“Yep. Had to see you,” he held on tightly to the reins, his horse sensing it was time to go.

“You are a naughty one,” she said chuckling. “I was helping with the last boy’s table.”

“Good enough reason to get you away from me,” he said making a face.

“It was the little boys,” she replied laughing.

“Even those you have to watch,” he said and turned right at the end of the lane. The horse took off with a dash.