The Preacher's Daughter (22 page)

Without a warning, Annie's grandma wandered over from the Dawdi Haus. ‘‘Mornin' to ya, Missy,'' she said, her head covering a bit cockeyed as she stared at Louisa. ‘‘You city girls do yogurt exercises on tables?''

Louisa squelched a nervous laugh. ‘‘Uh, no, this isn't exactly yoga.'' She hated to reveal what a total wimp she was. ‘‘I . . . er . . . saw a mouse.'' She felt ridiculous, but she was too freaked to budge.

Grandma flashed a smile. ‘‘Well now, that explains it.'' She stood there staring. ‘‘Did I hear voices a bit ago? Annie's, maybe?''

Nodding, Louisa glanced at the floor. ‘‘I had a cooking lesson . . . before the mouse showed up.''

‘‘Annie's got you workin', does she?''

‘‘I'd like to pull my weight around here.'' That struck her funny, and she imagined how strange she must look perched up here.

Grandma Zook shook her cane about, as if shooing away the unwelcome visitor. ‘‘There. I daresay it's safe for you to come down now, if you've got your wits 'bout you.''

That was definitely her cue to start acting like the empowered young woman she believed herself to be. She unfolded her long legs and hopped to the bench, standing there for a second before entrusting her feet to the floor.

‘‘Quite a morning, already, jah?'' Grandma teased.

‘‘I'm still getting acclimated to the country,'' she said with a smile. Then—‘‘Any mousetraps around here?''

‘‘No need, really, with all them barn cats. And your Muffin . . . where
is
that feline when he's needed?'' Grandma's eyes twinkled with mischief.

Cringing at the thought of her beloved kitty's paws getting anywhere near another disgusting mouse, Louisa went immediately to the sink to wash her hands. Then, returning to the table, she folded the white paper napkins and placed one beneath each fork.

The older woman smiled broadly, nodding deliberately.

‘‘Annie will have you cookin' all the time, if you're not careful.

She's a good teacher . . . but not much interested in domestic chores, seems to me.'' She hobbled over and sat in the chair at the foot of the table. ‘‘My granddaughter's got other things takin' up space in her head . . . ever since she was a wee girl.''

Louisa kept her eye out for a return of the mouse.

Grandma Zook continued. ‘‘We just don't know 'bout that one. Good-hearted, for sure and for certain, but our Annie thinks her own thoughts.'' She shook her head in short, quick jerks. ‘‘If you have any sway over her, I should hope you can steer her in the right direction.''

That's a tall order,
thought Louisa.

‘‘Her Dawdi and Daed are both worried, 'tween you and me.''

Louisa perked up her ears. ‘‘Why would that be?'' She wasn't playing dumb. She really wanted to know what this little demure grandma was thinking.

‘‘It's a cryin' shame for Annie to snub her nose at the Good Lord.'' Sighing, Grandma continued. ‘‘Seems to me she should've been first in line to join church when she turned courting age, or soon after. Just makes not a whit of sense.''

Louisa found it interesting that Annie's grandmother, whom she scarcely knew, felt comfortable opening up like this. ‘‘Well, I'm sure Annie will eventually do the right thing.''

‘‘I should hope so . . . for the Good Lord and the People,'' Grandma was quick to say with the fire of sincerity in her eyes.

When Annie returned to the house, Louisa was amazed at the large quantity of eggs in her wire basket.

Annie smiled big. ‘‘ 'Mornin', Mammi . . . I got me a perty big batch.''

‘‘Well,'' said her grandmother, staring at Annie. ‘‘You missed all the excitement.''

Louisa shrugged, wishing to forget the appearance of the mouse. And when Grandma didn't attempt to tell on her, Louisa was rather pleased . . . as if the older woman and she shared a small secret.

Annie looked somewhat confused. Not inquiring, she motioned for Louisa to go to the sink for some water. ‘‘See if the droplets bead and roll . . . and hiss on the stove. You try it.''

‘‘Jah . . . bead, roll, and spit. Bead, roll . . . spit,'' chanted the elderly woman.

When Louisa tested the heat, the water did precisely that. ‘‘That's cool,'' she said.

‘‘No, that's hot,'' Annie said. ‘‘You're ready to scramble up some eggs.''

‘‘Mustn't forget the bacon.'' Grandma Zook came over to observe.

Louisa welcomed her presence. She wasn't hovering the way Louisa's mom typically did. The woman, oddly enough, was most supportive and encouraging, though she merely nodded her little gray head, folding her hands now and then.

But in a few short minutes, even though she tried to keep ahead of the fire by continually scraping the eggs from the bottom of the cast-iron frying pan, Louisa had burned the eggs to a crispy mess. Chagrined, she wished she had attempted fried eggs instead. ‘‘I'm so sorry,'' she said, looking to Annie. ‘‘I'll have to start over. What about a back-up plan?''

‘‘Such as what?'' asked Annie.

‘‘Peahens' eggs?''

Annie covered her mouth, trying not to laugh, but her eyes told the truth. ‘‘No . . . no,
those
eggs are our future peacocks and peahens.''

Even Mammi Zook had to hold herself together, she cackled so hard.

‘‘Maybe I'd do better with pancakes,'' Louisa suggested, hoping so.

Annie quit laughing long enough to say she'd help Louisa figure out when to flip the pancakes.

At that moment, Annie's mother entered the kitchen, looking quite stunned at seeing an Englisher standing at her cook-stove.
And a worldly artist, at that!
Louisa was sure Barbara held her at arm's length and would continue to do so. And no wonder. Annie offered no explanation but quickly began to mix up the pancake batter. Her mother, who must have sniffed the burnt offering, set about making coffee.

It was Mammi Zook who nodded her head silently, patting Louisa's arm before heading over to the table to sit.
What a sweetheart,
thought Louisa, wondering why the older woman hadn't coached her earlier.
Learning by doing
. A concept her own mom had ignored early on as a young mother, too eager to step in and do things herself instead of allowing Louisa to try and possibly fail.

Part of why I love this place,
Louisa thought.
I'm free to fall flat on my face
.

Thinking ahead, she had difficulty envisioning the process of cutting out a cape dress and sewing it up in a few hours. But then, a few weeks ago she never would have believed she'd be running from an Amish mouse
or
wreaking havoc with breakfast for Annie's family!

Louisa was heartened by Annie's patience toward her . . . stretching the measuring tape from nape of neck to waist, and waistline to hem, as well as all the other vital measurements . . . to marking the hem. ‘‘Good thing we're sewing another dress for me. I have to admit, I have a hard time wearing something more than once. And it might be nice to have a nightgown, too. If you think I can sew one of those.''

‘‘Oh, well, if you really want to sew your nightclothes, that's fine, but I usually get mine at Wal-Mart.''

‘‘No kidding?''

Annie smiled playfully. ‘‘They have a hitchin' post out behind the store for us horse-'n'-buggy folk.''

‘‘Wow . . . interesting.''

‘‘Yeah, we show up every so often in pictures on the pages of the
Lancaster New Era,
one of the local newspapers, I'm told.''

Louisa was captivated. ‘‘The juxtaposition of the old ways and the modern high-tech world is really quite a clash—nearly startling, actually. Who would believe that people live this way . . . in the twenty-first century?''

She tried to focus on Annie's instruction. It was as if she were in seventh grade home ec class all over again. Except she'd never seen a treadle sewing machine, let alone operated one. It was so tricky to get the rhythm of her feet pressing back and forth. She felt absolutely inept.

‘‘Here, I'll show you once more,'' Annie offered. ‘‘It's like eatin' watermelon, spitting out the seeds, and walking at the same time, jah?''

‘‘I feel like such a klutz.''

‘‘You mean clumsy, jah? Here we say
dabbich
.''

Louisa repeated the Dutch word and smiled. ‘‘I'm slowly building my new vocabulary.''

‘‘That you are.'' Annie's feet worked the treadle, smooth as satin. ‘‘It takes some doin' . . . you almost don't want to think 'bout it too hard, though.''

Louisa watched and was soon ready to try again. ‘‘Your grandmother said you're a good teacher, and you're proving it to me.''

‘‘Did she also remind you that I taught at the one-room school for several years?''

‘‘No, but I remember
those
letters back then. You were waking before sunup to crank up the ol' wood stove so your students— all eight grades together—wouldn't shiver during the first hour of school.''

‘‘But I quit the second year Rudy was courtin' me. It looked as if I might be getting married that fall, but as you know, I didn't. By then, another girl had taken my spot as teacher.'' Annie explained how once she graduated from the eighth grade she was immediately eligible to instruct the younger students. ‘‘But the minute you're married, you're out.''

‘‘How come?''

‘‘A bride is expected to put all her attention into makin' a home for her husband and preparing to bear many children.''

‘‘So you couldn't have gone back to teaching even if you wanted to?''

‘‘
Nee,
wouldn't think of it,'' Annie said. ‘‘Such would set me up for tongue-waggin'.''

Not wanting to press further, Louisa could read between the lines. Preacher Jesse's daughter was a conundrum to the community. Big time.

And my coming adds even more fuel to the fire,
Louisa thought. Yet she felt no urgency to abandon Annie and cut short the visit. If anything, she was even more determined to stay and encourage her friend to follow her heart.

Chapter 23

T
he first thing Louisa noticed when they arrived at the covered bridge on Belmont Road was how very much it looked like Annie's painting, except for chips of missing reddish-brown paint from several roughly-hewn boards nearest the road. She recalled clearly the way Annie had set the tall craggy trees back away from the road in her picture—the locust grove gracefully bordering the creek—and the way the gray stone abutment seemed to vie for equal attention. The entire setting had been pinpointed precisely in the exquisite painting.

‘‘Talk about quaint. This is definitely it.'' She and Annie strolled together, arm-in-arm, to the base of the first tree, carrying their sketchbooks.

‘‘I've always heard the black locust seeds are poisonous,'' Annie said as if her mind had wandered.

‘‘You must feel plagued by this place. Is that why your painting is called ‘Obsession'?''

‘‘In more ways than I can say.'' Annie pointed out the dark trunk furrowed with interlacing bark. ‘‘Ever see thorns like this on a tree?''

‘‘Kinda creepy.''

‘‘And dangerous, if ever you've tried to climb it. Thorns are all over the limbs and on the trunk.''

They stood there silently, peering at the grove.

Suddenly the light left Annie's eyes, and it looked as if she might start to cry.

‘‘As pretty and serene as this is, it does have a haunting feeling,'' Louisa said.

Annie looked the other way for a moment, composing herself, no doubt. Then, she said softly, ‘‘My friend, Esther Hochstetler— you met her Sunday—well, her husband was the last person ever to see the boy who disappeared. Right here, where we're standing. Isaac was Zeke's little brother.''

‘‘Really? Well, what happened that night?''

‘‘Truly, Mamm's the best one to ask, but I can tell you what I know at least.''

Standing beneath the airy umbrella of branches, mostly devoid of leaves, Louisa listened as Annie began her story. ‘‘Something this awful had never happened round these parts . . . I can tell you for sure. Folk came and went—Amish and English alike—never thinking twice 'bout locking doors or being suspicious of strangers and whatnot. Never.'' Annie put her hand on her chest.

‘‘If it's too hard to—''

Annie shook her head. ‘‘No . . . I'll be all right.'' She sighed loudly. ‘‘Every mother lost sleep, Mamm told me. Some parents were so fearful they got permission from the bishop to get indoor plumbing . . . abandoned their old outhouses and whatnot.''

‘‘To keep tabs on their kids?''

‘‘Oh, jah.''

‘‘And what about Zeke? He must've totally freaked out, losing his brother like that.''

‘‘That's the truth. Esther's husband was hit terribly hard emotionally, I'm told. He was just a youngster, only eight when Isaac vanished into the air. He and Isaac had left the house after dark to bury their dead puppy. But Zeke acted against his father's will, sneakin' out of the house after supper when no one was looking.'' Annie paused, not saying more for a moment.

‘‘Heavy stuff.''

Neither spoke for a time. The air became eerily still before Annie began again. ‘‘Esther told me once that Zeke's father refused to forgive him and belittled him all through his growing-up years. Made a point of telling everyone the kidnapping was the worst possible punishment to befall a disobedient son, meaning Zeke, but that the harsh, even divine judgment had come for a reason nonetheless.''