Voices Carry (6 page)

“But here is not where you’re supposed to be,” Patsy said gently. “Do you know the phone number where I can reach your parents?”

Genna looked at Patsy with eyes that spoke of her infinite patience.

“Of course, I know the phone number. But I’m not going to call them.” Genna took a sip of her orange juice and placed the glass gently on the counter.

“Why don’t you want to call them?”

“My daddy and momma will be real mad at me and I’ll get a beating,” she announced matter-of-factly.

“Genna, you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I did.” Genna shook her head, and tears like tiny
pearls welled up in the corners of her eyes. “I did not obey Brother Michael.”

“If Brother Michael was trying to hurt you—trying to do something to you that was wrong. . .”

“Jesus said, ‘Obey the counselors.’” What little color Genna had was beginning to drain from her face, confusion and doubt playing off each other in her eyes.

“Genna, I don’t think that what Brother Michael did was exactly what Jesus had in mind. I think you were right to do just as your teacher told you to do. Running away was the right thing.”

Patsy paused. She didn’t know exactly what Brother Michael had done, though the child’s terror had been genuine enough and the torn nightgown sufficient proof that whatever the counselor had done, it was a safe guess that it probably wasn’t anything that Jesus would have sanctioned.

“Genna, I’m going to call someone who can help us straighten this out. . .”

Thirty minutes later, a dark blue Mustang pulled into the narrow dirt and gravel driveway that ran parallel to Patsy’s house. A tall young man got out and, after a cursory knock at the front door, walked right in.

“Aunt Patsy?” he called.

“In the kitchen, Brian.”

Brian Henderson walked into the kitchen to find his favorite aunt sipping coffee and feeding breakfast to a small girl with pale honey-colored hair and the biggest hazel eyes he’d ever seen.

“Genna, this is my nephew, Brian. He is a lawyer. This is Genna, Brian,” Patsy had said with exaggerated calm, “and she has a story to tell you. . .”

And tell her story, Genna had. Though reluctant at first, once she realized that the story was going to have to be told, Genna gave it her all, not missing a beat from the second that she woke up in Brother Michael’s arms to that very minute that Brian walked into Patsy’s house. Brian, looking shaken, had called the state police and within less than ten minutes, two state troopers pulled into the drive behind Brian.

By noon that day, all hell had broken loose at the Way of the Shepherd Summer Camp.

And Patsy’s life had never been the same since.

She couldn’t help but smile, though Lord knew that she’d have done anything—anything—to have spared Genna from all that had happened. The attempted rape should have been the worst that could have happened to the child, but in the long run, what came after had perhaps caused even deeper damage to the girl’s soul. Over the years, Patsy did all she could to make it up to Genna, but even she knew that she could never completely undo the past. Patsy had stood by Genna through it all, and in the end, with the court’s blessing, had taken the child home and raised her as her own.

“And never regretted one minute of it,” Patsy said aloud as she stepped out onto the deck and headed toward the lake. “Not one minute.”

She walked across the flat expanse of grass, thinking back to Genna’s phone call the night before. She had decided to take a little time off and thought she might join Patsy at the lake for a week, if, of course, that was all right with Patsy.

Patsy chuckled. There was nothing that pleased her more than having Genna there for whatever time she could spare out of her busy schedule. A day, a
weekend, a week—Patsy looked forward to whatever time they had together. That Genna was not of Patsy’s flesh and blood was only a technicality, as far as Patsy was concerned. Genna was her girl. One of Patsy’s proudest days had come one year on Mother’s Day when Genna, away at college, had sent Patsy a card in which she had written that the best part of her life began the day that the fates had led her, literally, to Patsy’s door. Every once in a while, when Patsy was missing Genna too much, she’d take that card out and read it again. It never failed to fill her eyes with tears and her heart with pride.

And by dinnertime tonight, she’ll be here.

Patsy walked along the old wooden dock and stood at the very end, and gazed out across the lake.

By dinnertime tonight, my precious girl will be home.

Coming back to Wick’s Grove always filled Genna with conflicting emotions. For years after she learned to drive, she would take an out-of-the way road that would wind through back roads for almost ten minutes in the opposite direction just to avoid driving by the old campgrounds. At the beginning of every summer she promised herself that this year she would take the most direct route and drive past the deserted camp, but every year, she found herself making the detour that would permit her to circumvent the area. And at the end of every summer, she’d promise herself that next year, she’d do it. She never had.

Some ghosts were more difficult to exorcise than others, Genna rationalized, as she paused at the stop sign marking the point where Freedom Road intersected with Tolliver, the very point where she would
decide whether to go straight, or to once again make that turn that would take her out of her way.

Straight or turn? Straight or turn?

An impatient driver behind her issued four short blasts of his horn. Her concentration broken, Genna made the turn, just as she always ended up doing for one reason or another.

Next time, I will go straight,
she told herself.
I will.

A half mile down Tolliver Road it occurred to Genna that this route would take her past the Frick farm, and she relaxed. No need to berate herself for her lack of courage this time. She did, after all, have a job to do.

Up ahead just a little farther was the stand from which the Fricks sold their fresh farm produce. Genna slowed, noticing the cars parked on either side of the road just before the small grove of ancient oaks under which the wooden tables stood laden with that morning’s harvest. Genna pulled to the shoulder and parked her aging Taurus behind a station wagon that had two car seats in the back.

Tucking her pocketbook under her arm, she strolled leisurely over the clumps of grass at the edge of the field that had been turned over by the spring plowing and from which dandelions and thorny thistle grew. There were six or seven customers picking over tomatoes that had been arranged in neat rows, mounds of dark green squash piled high, and deep purple beets, their stems tied together to form bunches, all with patches of pale dried dirt still clinging to them. Genna took her time, looking over the vegetables, as if she had all the time in the world, selecting a cantaloupe here, a few tomatoes there, not approaching the young woman who served as the
cashier until the other customers had started back to their cars.

Placing her selections on the overturned wooden box that served as a counter of sorts, Genna smiled and said, “I think this will do it for today.”

“The cantaloupe are really sweet this week.” The young girl, whose dark brown hair was pinned tightly to her head and held in place by a pale netting, never looked up from the small slip of paper upon which she tallied up Genna’s purchases. “The squash is good, too. And the string beans.”

“I didn’t see string beans,” Genna turned back to the table.

The young woman walked past Genna to check, then frowned.

“My brother was supposed to bring some down.” She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked up the long dirt lane to the sprawling farmhouse and the barns beyond. “He’s coming, but he’s taking his time about it.”

“It’s all right.” Genna assured her. “I’m not in any hurry. And besides, you have other customers.”

Genna gestured to the woman and her teenage daughter who were assembling a bouquet from the stems of cut summer flowers that stood in tall tin buckets at the end of the table.

And it will give me an opportunity to linger for a few minutes and to observe.

Not that she expected a host of bikers to come roaring up on their Harleys in a cloud of dust. But it had been a long time since she’d been to the Frick farm, and a few minutes to orient herself could be helpful.

Genna strolled with apparent aimlessness toward
the grove of trees. Three young girls between the ages of ten and twelve were trying to keep a half-dozen toddlers occupied and away from the road. Tall stalks of corn lined the long drive on either side, and somewhere up beyond the barn to the far left, Genna recalled, was a pond.

Her arms folded across her chest, Genna leaned against the side of one of the wooden tables and tried to pretend that she was not watching the two boys who were walking toward her, each carrying a basket. Both boys looked to be in their late teens, both were dressed in the traditional black pants and blue short-sleeved shirt, both were beardless, as would denote their single status. But the boy on the left walked with a purposeful stride, while the boy on the right appeared to trip over nearly every stone and clump of grass he passed, causing his companion to pause and wait for him, and causing Genna to wonder at the nature of his infirmity.

It wasn’t until he reached the table that she saw his eyes, saucered and bloodshot, the lids at half-mast. He was sniffing with every third breath he took through a nose that one, familiar with the symptoms of cocaine abuse, could detect the faintest trace of white powder.

Without speaking, he dumped the contents of his basket onto the wooden table. Watching him out of the corner of one eye, Genna sorted through the string beans and put her selections into a brown paper bag from a stack left there for that purpose. She handed the bag to the young woman and waited for her to weigh the contents.

“That’ll be no charge,” the girl told her, “since you had to wait for them.”

“Oh, but I didn’t mind—”

“Your mother is waiting for you,” the boy with the bloodshot eyes interrupted sullenly as if Genna wasn’t there.

“And it’s your fault if she is,” the girl hissed.

“Well, we’re here now, Lydia.” The other boy stepped in front of her to take the two zucchini, almost as long as baseball bats and nearly as thick, from the hands of the woman who stood next to Genna. “Your sister said to bring the little ones back now and get them cleaned up for supper.”

“As if I’d leave them here with you and him,” Lydia grumbled, her eyes narrowing as she leaned closer as if to inspect the face of the boy with the bloodshot eyes. “What’s wrong with you, Eli?” she asked.

“Nothin’,” he mumbled.

“Go on, now,” the second young man told her. “I’ll take care of things here. You’re needed up at the house.”

“But Eli—”

“Your brother will be fine,” he assured her. “All of the dust from the hay in the barn is just making his nose run.”

That, and what he’s been stuffing it with,
Genna was tempted to add.

Having spent as much time as she could seeming to arrange her bags, Genna lifted all and walked to her car where she opened the rear driver’s-side door to put her purchases inside. Not having expected to get lucky so early in the game, Genna watched in her rearview mirror as she pulled away. The boy with the “dust allergy” was stretching out beneath one of the trees, while his companion waited on the customers.
As she drove the rest of the way to the lake, Genna tried to recall the photographs that she’d seen in Decker’s office. There had been three Amish boys around the same age as the boys she had just seen, though in the photos, their faces had not been clear. The young woman had not been in the pictures, and the toddlers had not been under the trees. But the shadows had been shorter, indicating an earlier hour in the day. Perhaps late morning, she speculated, when the smallest members of the family might be napping, and the women would be preparing the noon meal.

Genna turned onto the road leading down to the lake, wondering how long young Eli’s supply would last, when his friends would be bringing him more, and just what he was doing in return for the favor.

The long way to the lake took Genna down Coldstream Road, past the general store and the area’s one fine restaurant, Sally’s Lakeside, where
all you can eat
meant exactly that. Genna drove slowly, as one was forced to do here on the thin asphalt ribbon that circled Bricker’s Lake in a narrow arc that barely permitted two SUV’s to pass each other. There were other sections of roadway that had never been paved, but over here, in the more highly populated section of the community, macadam had been put down a few years back. On Patsy’s side, the road was still hard-packed dirt that could be a real problem during times of heavy rain, but many of Patsy’s neighbors were elderly and could not afford to pitch in for the paving.

Slowing to watch three teenage girls slip their catamaran into the water, Genna smiled, recalling many a summer day when she’d done that. Though not with friends. Genna hadn’t had many of them. When she wanted to sail, it had been Patsy who had accompanied her.

As soon as she rounded the last gentle curve in the road, Genna could see Patsy, there at the end of the pebbled
drive, clipping long stems of Queen Anne’s lace from a clump that grew wild near the mailbox. At the sight of Genna’s Taurus, Patsy straightened up, tucked her clippers into a pocket of her apron and pulled off her headset, letting it rest around her neck, and placed her flowers on the ground. With her hands on her hips and a smile on her face, she watched Genna park.

“Pull up a little farther, honey,” Patsy called to her. “Your tail end is hanging out onto the road.”

Genna did as she was told, Patsy chattering the entire time.

“. . . and even though I’ve told him a hundred times, ‘Wayne, don’t drive so close to the side of the road. . .’”

“You still picking on that poor mailman?” Genna grinned as she got out of the car.

“Well, that poor mailman knocked over old Mr. Parker’s mailbox two weeks ago.” Patsy paused long enough to wrap Genna in a close hug. “I’ve told him, Nancy’s told him. . .”