Davey's Daughter (16 page)

Rose put an elbow on the table, cupped her chin in her hand, her gorgeous, heavily-lashed eyes blue but clouded with worry.

“I hardly know how to tell you, but Sarah, something isn’t right with Lee. I just can’t describe it. Really it’s just…well, weird. He’s nice to me, very attentive, actually, but it’s like all of him isn’t there or something. He seems kind of distracted.”

Sarah’s own hot fudge sundae now became the focus of her attention. Guilt, coupled with self-loathing and shame so all encompassing it felt like burning fire, washed over her.

“I mean, I know Lee loves me. There was never a doubt in my mind. He just doesn’t seem as if he’s quite like he was when we began dating. You don’t think…I mean, Sarah, do you think he’s thinking of someone else?”

Blinking rapidly, her face flaming, she shook her head, avoiding Rose’s gaze.

“What’s wrong with you?” Rose demanded, suddenly.

“Nothing, Rose. Why?”

“There is, too.”

“I’m just too full. My stomach hurts terribly.”

“Are you serious?”

Sarah nodded miserably.

Rose laughed, a high-pitched giggle of understanding and friendship and relief all rolled into one burst of joyous sound.

“So, what do you think about Lee?”

“Oh, guys are hard to figure out, Rose. Don’t ask me. I have no faith in my ability to understand guys. Look what happened to me. Fine one minute and oh so miserable the next. Who knows what they’re thinking? I’m going to be an old maid schoolteacher, living in my own small house, thin and pinched and mean.”

Rose whooped with laughter, then smacked the table top with the palm of her hand, turning heads as she did so.

“Sarah, that is exactly why you are my closest friend. I just love the way you express yourself. Well, good. Then I have nothing to worry about you, right? I mean, Lee sometimes, well, he mentions you. How different you are from most other girls. And…Well, you know, Sarah.”

Rose broke off, biting her lower lip.

Sarah couldn’t get away fast enough, scuttling down the aisles wanting the floor to open and swallow her.

Shamed, her face flaming now, she knew she was every bit as bad as a traitor, an adulterer.

Oh, she’d wanted Lee to take her in her arms, kiss her, and tell her he loved her, the way men did in all the novels she read, in all the hopes and dreams of her heart. Every girl yearned to be loved, it was simply the way it was.

Solomon devoted an entire book in the Bible to the love between a man and a woman, and God was pleased, Sarah felt sure.

But why? Why was she always the odd person caught in a love triangle with Rose as the prominent character?

She thought of the heart-stopping depth of Lee’s blue eyes, the powerful, magnetic attraction she had experienced. His blond hair, the soiled stocking cap, the black dust on his face, the work-roughened hands clenching her arms.

Oh, Lee. It’s too late, now. I ruined you with my undying love for Matthew, my stubborn refusal to see what he was. A man in love with Rose, my oldest friend. And here I go again.

And yet. He’d talked of her, to Rose.

It was hard to suppress the pinwheels of joy that cavorted freely and colorfully through her entire being, her heart soaring and swelling with a newfound awe. And yet she wondered if it would ever be possible, and now, so soon, she knew.

Too soon. It was much too soon. Her broken heart had left her vulnerable, and she’d be hurt. Again.

“Hey!”

Sarah stopped and turned, searching for the person who had called her, perplexed.

Harold from the leather goods stand stood at his entrance, his arm waving, motioning her over. He was tall, with wisps of sandy hair combed thinly across the top of his scalp, which showed though easily. His mouth was surrounded by a splattering of sand-colored stubble, a short goatee that was never quite there and never quite gone. His eyes were gray, so much like Ashley’s.

Sarah stood before him, lifting her eyes to his.

“Where’s Ashley?” he demanded brusquely.

“I have no idea,” Sarah answered.

“Well, maybe you’re telling the truth.”

Sarah decided to offer no information. Perhaps he never knew Ashley had asked to go home with her. She stood quietly.

“You know she disappeared.”

“You mean, completely?”

“Yeah.”

Sarah bit her lip, said nothing.

“How much do you know about her?”

“Not much. We talked a few times. She’s nice.”

“Well, I’m going to warn you now. Stay away from her. She’s bad news. She’s addicted to alcohol. Does drugs. You wouldn’t think it, but she’s a mess. Can’t handle life.”

Sarah lifted her chin. “You could help her. She said you hate her.”

Harold became a changed man. His face whitened, he stammered, and became extremely uncomfortable. Then he did his best to hide his discomfort by laughing, a rocky snort lacking any kind of true mirth.

“Ah, you know how teenagers are. They all think their dads hate them. She’s just a kid.”

Sarah faced him squarely. “She’s troubled about a lot of things. Her boyfriend, Mike, for one. And for some strange reason, these barn fires that have been cropping up really bother her. She’s obsessed with them.”

Instantly, Harold began rambling, his words falling over one another in his haste to assure Sarah that his daughter was mentally off with all the substance abuse, and she knew nothing of these barn fires, not one single thing. He finished with another warning.

“You stay away from her. Don’t mess with her. She’s…”

“Well, if she disappeared, I won’t be able to,” Sarah said stiffly.

Having spoken himself into a corner, Harold rambled on again, saying she’d come back, she always did, that’s what he’d meant in the first place.

Sarah nodded, then moved on without saying good-bye, her head held high, her gaze trained straight ahead.

She’d just brush that Walters family off, forget she even knew they existed. Like a spot on a wall, they would be easy enough to wipe out of her memory, and she would be glad to be rid of them, someone else’s concern, none of her own.

What Harold and Ashley Walters did or said was absolutely none of her business, and she’d take his advice and keep it that way.

From the produce stand, a husky, black-haired youth stopped hammering the board he was putting into place as he turned and watched the tall, lithe girl in the startling blue dress swing by, her movements swift and easy, reminding him of a deer, so soft, so graceful, and as lovely.

He turned, slowly, and went back to work.

W
ho could ever have predicted that the arsonist would choose an evening when the roads were slick with freezing rain and snow to bend over his lighter and newspaper and bits of wood and start the diabolical little fire that consumed yet another poor farmer’s livelihood?

Enos Miller was young, his mortgage payments on the old Hess place high. But with his wife’s frugal spending habits, good management, and careful planning, they’d made it through the first five years.

Annie had born him three children. Blessings from above, he called them. His quiver was well stocked with the three little souls God had
be-shaed
(given) them. His days were filled with hard work, and he enjoyed the fruits of his labor, anticipating the time the children would work side by side with him, building a secure foundation of tradition and trust.

They’d put the baby, Ben, to bed and covered him with an extra blanket, the sound of pinging hail on the north bedroom window calling for warmer covers. Then they knelt side by side by the foot of the high, queen-sized bed and bowed their heads as Enos prayed the German evening prayer and Annie kept her mind on his words, repeating them silently.

Annie had extinguished the kerosene lamp with a quick puff, and together they cuddled beneath the comforter brought from the cedar chest she’d received from her parents, lined with the sweet smelling wood, the flannel patchwork retaining the scent of cleanliness and home.

He kissed her goodnight, told her he loved her, then fell into a deep, restful sleep, the grateful slumber of a weary man after a hard day’s work. He’d commented to Annie before he fell asleep what a good feeling it was to be finished cleaning out the box stables just as this rain turned to ice.

It was the baby’s coughing that woke Annie, sleeping with her senses alert, the way young mothers do.

By that time, the fire had reached the horse stable, where the driving horses had been tied to keep them warm and dry, out of the harsh elements that night.

Annie was bewildered by the banging at first, then terrified by the high screaming of the panicked horses. She flung the bedroom door open, rushed to the hall window, and beheld a sight she would never forget.

She called to her husband in panic, her voice coming from deep in her throat, hoarse and primal, a cry of complete disbelief.

Enos felt the horror before he saw it, fumbling with his clothes, crying out, croaking words of defeat in Pennsylvania Dutch as he pulled his shoes blindly onto his bare feet. He stumbled, slid on the ice, fell, crying out again and again as he made his way to the barn, yanked open the door, and was met by a wall of raging fire, consuming the air he had given it.

The hellish situation encompassed his senses and imprinted into his memory, the smell of burning cowhide and the black smoke, the screams of his animals in indescribable pain and suffering, the icy rain pelting his back, the red-orange inferno driving him back, away from any attempt at saving even one cow, one calf, one horse.

Still sobbing, he slid across the gravel driveway, his mind clearing enough to propel him toward the phone shanty set halfway out the driveway between the poplar tree and the wagon shed.

Just as he reached the shanty, his feet gave way on the dangerous slickness, and he fell hard on his hip, saved from a mean break by the youthful resilience of good strong bone and muscle. He crawled, then pulled himself up by the handle on the door, wet, shaking, his teeth chattering. He directed the fire trucks, giving the address, 177 Heyberger Road.

Everything moved slower that night.

The cinder trucks went ahead of the fire trucks as the township worked together with the local fire companies to allow them access to the Enos Miller farm, set back on rural roads, around turns, up hills and down, every inch of the roadway slick with ice and snow.

Mercifully, the two oldest children slept through the worst of it, their angelic little faces turned toward each other in the safety of the room at the top of the stairs, covered with a heavy flannel comforter. It was one of the ones Annie’s mother, Sadie, had knotted with her sisters that day, after they found out there would be a new baby, at the age of forty-six.

The baby had settled down with his pacifier, and Annie was grateful for that as she stood inside the front door, alone, crying helplessly. She watched their hopes and dreams consumed by roaring flames, disappearing into the wet, icy atmosphere in great black billows of smoke.

Annie was quick-witted and intelligent. She remembered the last time she’d paid the fire tax. It had come in the mail, stating the amount they would owe, the Amish method of paying for their own catastrophes at times such as this.

Yes, God would provide.

As the flames leaped and danced and licked the night sky, she felt the safety of their heritage, a net designed by caring individuals, their hands intertwined to form a safe haven of care. At the root of it was God’s love, the kind human beings could only obtain from a heavenly father and rely on to make life better for one another.

So she remained calm when the fire company could not respond immediately. She opened the door to call Enos and was grateful when he came up on the front porch, away from the pelting ice and rain.

She comforted her husband, fulfilling the duty of all wives, being a helpmeet, a bolster to her beloved in this time of need. He slowly regained his composure before he heard the wail of the fire sirens down on 896.

“
Ess mocht sich
(It will be alright),” Annie said, and he knew he had never heard sweeter words.

Yes, they would make it. Everything would be alright.

That statement, however, did nothing to prepare them for the days ahead, the unbelievable loss buried in the wet, blackened, stinking pile of debris. When the rain finally stopped and the cold, merciless sun shone through the clouds, it illuminated the remains of things that tore at Enos with claws of pain.

The hay wagon had been his grandfather’s. His dat had given it to him, smiling, pointing out the heavy oak boards worn smooth by generations of men toiling in the hot summer sun. Now it was reduced to twisted steel wheels.

The feed cart and the wheelbarrow had both been repaired, used long past their primes, but they had served as beacons of Enos and Annie’s careful planning, their balancing of a meager budget.

As always, the help arrived with horses pulling gray and black buggies, the iron clad hooves ringing in the icy wetness, the mud splashers hanging between the buggy shafts and catching all the bits of grey ice and mud before they slid off and fell back onto the road.

They disembarked, these men dressed in black doubleknit coats and black felt hats, their black trousers tucked into tall, rubber muck boots, their hands encased in brown work gloves, their ruddy faces alight with kindness yet again.

Women came, too. They turned, reached under seats, pulled out long aluminum cake pans or Tupperware containers of pies or cookies. They brought Walmart bags of crackers and pretzels, cheese and bologna, whatever they could find in their refrigerators or cellars, raiding their own pantries with hands driven by generosity.

They clucked about all the mud tracked into Annie’s clean house, asked earnest questions, their eyes birdlike, inquisitive, wondering how the fire had started on a night like that. And Enoses living on a hill the way they did.
Ach
my.

The carpenter crews arrived in pickup trucks, big four-wheel drives with heavy caps on the back, carrying electric tools and portable generators. Youth came wearing stocking caps and dressed almost English, but they had kind, sympathetic faces and respectful attitudes, Enos told Annie later. He had to give them that.

The children had caught the flu. They were feverish, whining their discomfort, as the house remained perpetually cold and muddy with the doors opening constantly. There was no rest for Annie.

She carried on, dutifully performing every task that needed to be done, received boxes of food, cooked along with the women, washed clothes, nursed the baby, rocked her cranky little ones, and tried to look for the good in everything.

Dat heard of the fire in the morning from the milk truck driver.

He was grave, his face lined with the bad news, his eyes concerned, knowing this fire would stir the dreaded pot of loud opinions, determination, the rumblings of retaliation that were always voiced by those who thought along the ways of the worldly.

Over and over, Dat stressed the importance of staying pure from the world, which meant not only dressing modestly and living a simple life but having attitudes and goals that were not worldly. He truly believed there were plenty of worldly men dressed in Amish clothes, secure in their displays of righteousness, but who harbored attitudes of gain and selfishness, even
schadenfreude
(pleasure at the misfortune of others), and were as worldly as if they drove around in Mercedes Benzes and dressed in brilliant hues.

But humans were just that, human, and he offered up patience and forbearance as well, striving to live by example, aware of the immense job at hand, especially at a time such as this.

He ate his fried eggs and sausage, finished his dish of rolled oats and shoofly pie, drank his steaming mug of coffee, and said he’d be glad if Sarah could accompany him, if Mam was busy at home.

Sarah nodded, willing to go, although a bit pensive, sad that her last market day had been cancelled because of the ice and snow. Well, she’d visit occasionally, or substitute if she was asked. She’d now have to accept the market days as a time remembered.

She dressed warmly and put on her new wool, pea coat and wrapped a warm green and beige plaid scarf around her neck. Then she carried out the boxes of food Mam had prepared yet again.

She loosened the latches on each side of the buggy and lifted the back on its hydraulic hinges. She loosed the seat back and swung it to the side, lifted the seat bottom and placed the cardboard boxes underneath. Running back to the kitchen, she picked up her coffee cup, the lime green to-go cup that had been a market favorite. She said goodbye, then dashed out to help Dat hitch up Fred, who was already pawing the ground, eager to get started on the long trek to Georgetown, nearly ten miles away.

How could such a beautiful, glistening world be marred by another tragedy?

Dat remained quiet, his eyes sad, his black felt hat lowered to hide that very question.

Sarah sipped her coffee, remained quiet alongside her father, and was startled when he spoke, his voice gruff and loud.

“It wouldn’t be as hard if these hotheads would calm down. And I really am afraid your cousin Melvin is behind a lot of it. He seems to be building momentum, becoming even more verbal and aggressive as time goes on. We may never find out who this arsonist is. Never.”

Sarah nodded. “But isn’t it dangerous, going on this way?”

“No lives have been lost. When that happens, we’ll take action.”

“But you don’t want to wait that long.”

Dat nodded, then turned to smile at Sarah. “Do you have a plan?”

Sarah laughed and stuck her elbow in Dat’s side. “Of course not.”

In companionable silence then, they rode the rest of the way, enjoying the display of ice and powdery snow melting in the early winter sun. Bare branches were transformed into works of art, red berries on low-growing bushes popping with color among the dark brown branches covered with glowing ice.

Giant yellow trucks clanked past, the chains on the huge wheels rattling, shoving slush and spreading salt or cinders, allowing folks all over Lancaster County safe passage to their jobs or errands.

Fred didn’t seem to mind the trucks, and he stayed steadily on course when they passed, although he always picked up his head, his ears flicked backward, then forward.

“Remember George?” Dat asked once.

“Yes. That horse was crazy!”

Dat nodded.

George had been a perfect horse, trotting swiftly, steadily, until he met a truck or tractor, anything large or noisy. Then he shied so badly they often ended up in a field or up a bank, narrowly missing telephone poles or fence posts. Eventually he had to be sold, Dat proclaiming him an accident waiting to happen.

Sarah was sickened by the sight of the smoking remains of the barn, her face losing its healthy color as she struggled to gain some sense of understanding.

It was always the same. How could Dat remain so passive about this? Rage coupled with determination brought two bright spots to her pale cheeks, but she said nothing.

So what if Melvin was worldly? Nobody else was trying to do anything to stop this senseless display of blatant hate.

Sarah didn’t know Enos and Annie Miller, but they were young, Amish, and in need. And since their own barn had burned to the ground, just like this one, that was reason enough to want to help.

She was met at the door by a buxom older woman who smiled at her and asked if she needed help. The woman grabbed the cardboard box and lumbered into the house with it, calling over her shoulder that if there was more, she’d help.

Sarah winced as the woman stepped off the porch, wearing no coat, stepping solidly on the slippery steps without fear, her dark eyes alight with interest as she moved along with surprising speed for her bulk.