The Outcast (7 page)

Eli’s pale brows wrinkle as he stares at this unusual woman who holds him against her cushy bosom like she will never let him go. If Ida Mae had her choice, she wouldn’t. And for the first time since the arrival of the young girl and her illegitimate child, Ida Mae Speck’s hoping Rachel will
not
leave with that young man who bit his nails the whole drive from Copper Creek to Blackbrier, but will stay with her in
the little tin-roofed cottage between an Amish store and the train tracks, which houses the remnants of lives that were never truly lived.

Rachel

Once Ida Mae tactfully leaves, I grab the blanket off the armchair and drape it around my shoulders. Bowing my arms behind me, I begin to fold my hair into a braid, but Judah touches my arm and says, “Don’t. I like it down.”

I want to tell Judah King that he has no right to determine the way I do my hair or clothes; that from an overbearing father to the man who fathered my child, men have been superimposing their desires upon mine until I couldn’t even tell that they were not one and the same. Even if Judah’s heart is good, that does not mean his intentions are what they should be.

He must sense these thoughts from the firmness of my mouth trying to keep them all in, for he tilts his head and asks, “Did I say something wrong?”

“No. I’m just tired from yesterday.”

Judah nods, looks over at the unblinking gray eye of the TV, and then to my brown bag, which he had placed by the door. “You never have to go back there,” he says. “I packed up everything I saw. But if something’s missing, we can buy it for you. I’ve saved up some money from smithing over
the years. Not a lot, but it’ll hold us over. At least until I can get a job.”

Trying not to appear as disquieted as I feel, I move to the front door and gesture for Judah to follow. I sit on a wicker rocking chair on the porch; Judah’s lips crook into a grin as he takes the seat beside me. I don’t know what he is expecting, but I have a feeling he is going to be disappointed. Pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders, I tuck my feet on the rung of the rocking chair and use my body to set it into motion. A light rain begins to fall, the contact on the tin roof making it sound like a deluge. An orange tomcat darts from under the porch and curls into a woolly ball at my feet. I scoot my chair back so it won’t land on his tail. To Judah’s credit, he says nothing, but just lets me rock in silence.

“I appreciate . . .” I pause and try to think of a less formal beginning. “It was very kind of you to get my things for me.”

Judah just nods and stares out at the yard whose dirt is turning to mud beneath the steady trickle of rain. Knowing then that nothing will penetrate his dreamy mind but the truth, I say, “It was kind of you to pack up my things, but there should be no mention of ‘we’; there should be no mention of ‘us’ until I’m sure that’s a pronoun I want to use.”

Judah says, “But even as children, I’ve always thought of you as just an extension of me.”

Risking a glance at him, I see the profile of the young
boy who taught me how to read and write English for hours without the smallest complaint. Judah does not deserve the harsh vocalization of my thoughts, but neither can he keep holding out such foolish hope for something that can never be.

“Until I know the mistakes I’ve made no longer have the power to hurt those I love,” I say, “I have no choice but to be a single mother to Eli.”

Judah stops rocking his chair and reaches over to stop mine. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he says, his cheeks flushed. “I don’t know what mistakes you’ve made or who you’ve made them with, but I know marrying me wouldn’t be one of them.”

Dropping the blanket from my shoulders, I snap, “No, that’s where
you’re
wrong. You think I’m still that innocent little girl who was your childhood friend. Well, I’m not. You don’t even know who I am.
I
don’t even know who I am. Until I’ve gotten that figured out, you and I can never be ‘us.’”

Judah looks over, and I can see the reality of my refusal sinking in. As if walking in a trance, he rises and comes over to stand before me. “When you’ve figured out who you are, you let me know. Until then . . .” Stooping, he places his blacksmith’s hands on either side of my chair and slants his body parallel to mine. I flinch at his closeness, at the lure of his proximity. Ignoring my withdrawal, he places a light kiss on the center of my part created by years of braided pigtails and scalping buns. “Good-bye, Rachel,” Judah whispers.

He then straightens and walks off the porch into the pouring rain.

His leaving is not quite the dramatic exit his words deserve. Judah first must grab a bag from Ida Mae’s truck before he can walk up to the four-lane highway running past the store.

I sit on the white wicker chair when I want to sprint after him, when I want to ask how he is going to leave or how he thinks he can. Judah has no vehicle, and he wouldn’t know how to drive one if he did. By his own admission, he does not have much money to pay a driver.

None of this deters him. I watch how the rain plasters his homemade shirt to his lean body and drips off the back of his black felt hat. Judah lifts his thumb like the hitchhikers we sometimes see on the roads and begins walking up the highway.

Only when I know he is out of sight do I stand and walk barefoot into the sodden yard, trying to catch one more glimpse of him. It is too late. Judah is already gone, despite not knowing where he is going or how he will get there.

For all our differences, it seems Judah King and I are living lives that are one and the same.

I have no idea how much time has passed when Ida Mae appears with a mug of black coffee and a bowl of something that looks like porridge.

“Grits,” she explains, thrusting the bowl at me. “The staple food for everybody beneath the Mason-Dixon Line.”

The warm bowl feels good in my hands, but the thought of eating anything right now is appalling. Ida Mae collapses into the chair that Judah had occupied and starts rocking with the rolling of her tiny booted foot. Taking a sip of coffee, she keeps staring straight ahead as she says, “Welp, Rachel-girl, didja send him packing?”

I nod.

“I think you done right. Judah’s a sweet boy, but you can’t be raising two kids when you’re just a kid yourself.”

Feeling defensive, I say, “He’s hardly had a chance to prove himself to anyone.”

Ida Mae pats Lady’s head. The dog has wobbled over to rest a dirty paw on her master’s knee. “I reckon he’s left the church?” she asks.

“Yes,” I reply, realizing the enormity of his departure. “I believe he has.”

“That’s for the best too. Judah can never find himself, tied to his momma’s apron strings.”

“Or under his brother’s thumb.”

Ida Mae glances over at the vehemence in my voice. “Gerald drives Tobias here sometimes,” she says. “Along with some other menfolk from Copper Creek. They fix the storage barns and bring me quilts from their women that I can sell. In the summer, they bring their produce. You gonna be all right working round all that?”

Taking a bite of grits, I swallow the buttery granules and say, “That’ll be fine. I’ll just stay in the store.”

“And have you thought ’bout where you and that young’un are gonna live?”

“Actually, I was wondering if . . .”

“Yeah?” Ida Mae stares out into the yard with a bored look.

“Well, if Eli and I could maybe stay here? For a while, at least? I can cook and clean for you, and I could grocery-shop if a store’s within walking distance.”

My stomach sinks as Ida Mae shakes her head. “You telling me you’re gonna make those sorry cinnamon rolls every morning and coffee that could replace the oil in a car?”

“I’ll have to learn how to use an electric stove, but I’m a fast learner.”

Ida Mae gives me a skeptical look. “From that twister in my kitchen, I’d say you clean ’bout as good as you cook.”

“I’m actually a very tidy person. This morning was just a little . . . different.”

“I’ll say.” She sniffs, setting the empty mug on the porch and shooing the orange tomcat away. “Nothing’s been the same since I picked you and that kid up from the hospital.”

I stand to go inside, carrying my bowl of grits. Before I open the storm door, I turn back to Ida Mae. “I don’t think anything’s been the same for me, either.”

She smiles even though tears shine in her eyes. “Nah, honey, and it’s never gonna be. You can bet your bottom dollar on that.”

On my way to the kitchen, I glance around at the blue room and see the yellowed LEGO magazines and nailed horseshoes that have turned crumbly with rust. I no longer think I can ask Ida Mae if we can redecorate this room, for as we were talking, I saw in her eyes the same strange sorrow I know must be reflected in mine.

AMOS

Had Samuel and Helen Stoltzfus known that their young driver left the Amish church only three months before so he could become the next Dale Earnhardt, they surely would have asked for a refund rather than paying him that extra hundred dollars to make it from Pennsylvania to Tennessee in eleven hours instead of the standard twelve. But Helen takes pride in sticking to her word, especially since her husband doesn’t, so, standing outside the hospital with a large suitcase leaning against her skirted legs, Helen hands over the crisp Ben Franklin without giving the young driver the scolding his terrible driving deserves.