Davey's Daughter (20 page)

The weather turned cold and damp, and still they kept playing. The lower graders established themselves, playing kickball with the good soccer ball Sarah had purchased, their cheeks rosy from the cold, their eyes snapping with excitement and good health when they crashed through the front door, whipped off their coats and scarves and beanies, and slid into their desks when the bell summoned them to their seats.

On the day when Sarah announced they had accumulated five hundred points, her eyes shone with anticipation.

“That is so exciting!” she said, speaking as if the entire school had participated.

“Our field trip will be a tour of the Strasburg Railroad Museum and a ride on the train!”

A great cheer rose from the pupils, especially the lower graders.

“For lunch, we’ll go to my house, and my mother will make stromboli.”

Another enthusiastic roar greeted this announcement, and Sarah dared peek sideways at the disgruntled upper graders who had refused to play and would not be joining the field trip. She found varying degrees of embarrassment, remorse, and a watered down mockery, perhaps.

“I have a brother, Levi, who has Down syndrome, and he will have a surprise for everyone as well.”

“What’s Down syndrome?” Reuben asked.

“He was born with a handicap. Years ago they called these people retarded, but he’s just a little mentally and physically challenged. His mental capacity is about the same as an eight year old’s. But he’s so excited when the school comes to visit.”

Rosanna raised her hand, her lower lip protruding petulantly. “What are we going to do?”

“You’ll have to stay home that day.”

Sarah actually felt sorry for those who had refused to play baseball. The jeering and rebellion suddenly felt as if it was running low on fuel, sputtering, dying but still gliding along, an airplane with no fuel gauge, unaware, above the clouds.

“That’s against the rules. You can’t make us do that.”

“We’ll see.”

After third recess, Rosanna marched to Sarah’s desk, leaned across it, and said briskly, “If we play baseball from now till you go, can we go, too?”

“What do you mean by we?”

“We. Everyone else. All the upper graders.”

“Let me think about it.”

Rosanna’s eyes were a mixture of arrogance and shyness, which was so encouraging that Sarah burst through the door, threw her book bag on the table, and yelled for Mam the minute she got home.

Sarah missed two weddings in the month of November, refusing to allow a substitute access to the fragile foundation she had built so far.

The weddings were for distant cousins, relatives on her father’s side who she wasn’t well acquainted with, so she didn’t feel too bad when she decided against going.

She thought of Lee constantly, wondered if he’d ask to take her to the supper table, the Amish tradition where the bride and groom coupled their friends for an evening of food and hymn-singing.

She saw him only from a distance on weekends, averted her eyes when he did come close.

Rose cornered Sarah, of course, one of the first weekends after Lee broke off their friendship, wailing unhappily about life’s unfairness, and what was she supposed to do now?

They were seated side by side on the small sofa in Barbie Ann Smoker’s bedroom. Her parents, Levi Smokers, had arranged to have the supper for almost 150 youth.

Sarah admired the solid oak bedroom furniture, the double windows dressed in purple drapes, the matching floral comforter, and listened sympathetically as Rose rambled on.

Rose had lost weight. Her face was pale, her cheekbones etched sharply against the rich purple of the window coverings.

She was even more beautiful, her large, blue eyes limpid with sadness and misery. Her dress was a powdery blue, matching the color of her eyes, and Sarah could truthfully say she was astounding.

“I should have kept Matthew. I miss him now.”

Sarah exhaled a derisive puff of air.

“Tell me about it.” The words tumbled out before Sarah could recapture them.

“You really did love him, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes. Definitely. I loved him all my life.”

“I know. You loved him even when I dated him.”

“No.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I know.”

They burst into giggles and then became hysterical. Sarah held Rose’s thin form as she cried pitifully against her shoulder. Sitting up, Rose sighed and blew her nose, before a fresh wall of tears tumbled down the porcelain face.

“We’ll just be old maids. Buy a market stand. Sell doughnuts. Or make hoagies. Have a deli. Weight three hundred pounds and enjoy our lives.”

“Immensely,” Sarah nodded.

“No pun intended,” Rose said sourly.

Then they became hysterical again, and Sarah decided a friendship like theirs was rare. It had withstood the ravages of unstable relationships with Matthew, gossip, and attractions to Lee. But would it be able to survive if Lee actually did begin a serious friendship with Sarah after allowing the proper span of time to elapse?

What if Lee was just another Matthew? Hadn’t Matthew been fiercely attracted to her that day at the Beilers’ barn raising? But nothing had come of it, really.

Sarah was consumed by fear and dread, the thought of Lee being untrue or insincere rendering her motionless.

“Sarah, did you know that your eyes turn dark when you think something deep or disturbing?”

“Do they?”

“Yeah. You have such a golden look about you. I often think of you that way. Your eyes and your skin sort of match your hair.”

“You mean I look like a dog or a cat?”

“Oh now, stop!”

That day their friendship was cemented once more, the camaraderie between them a solid, binding thing.

Rose could not have known about the moment Lee found Sarah’s eyes, and for long seconds, one yearned for the other, the attraction equal, complete, leaving Sarah in a fine misery afterward, pulled in two directions by her loyalty to Rose, her feelings for Lee. Why was life always so complicated?

Through the cold night air, Sarah walked alone, searching for Melvin’s buggy after the supper. Suddenly a tall figure appeared beside her.

“Looking for a ride home?”

She stopped, turned.

“I’m Alan Beiler. I think I saw you at Enos Miller’s, right?”

“Oh yes. Yes, I was there.”

“Hello.”

The hand that was proffered was large, firm, cool to her touch, and she looked up into two dark, dark eyes with a warm light in them.

“I’m Sarah. Beiler. Same as you.”

“Yeah. Your dat’s a minister. We’re not related. Well, maybe fourth or fifth cousins. I checked the Fisher book.”

Sarah was flattered. He’d checked the Fisher book. That announcement was pretty serious. Often, if a young man was interested or curious or attracted to a young girl, he only had to look up her family in the Fisher book, a recording of every family in Lancaster County and the surrounding areas.

“You need a ride?” he repeated.

“No. My cousin, Melvin, is around here somewhere.”

And Sarah was suddenly relieved that he was.

A
bleak, windy Saturday in December found Sarah walking into the Turkey Hill on Route 340, determined to talk to Ashley.

No one knew she had gone except Mam, who believed the story Sarah had given her about going to Country Cupboard for prizes, little objects to be handed to her pupils when they deserved a reward.

She tied Fred securely, blanketed him, and wrapped her coat tightly around her shivering body as she walked to the door.

It was better than she’d hoped. Ashley was on her knees, stocking shelves, and there was a glad light in her eyes.

“Sarah!”

“Hi, Ashley.”

“It’s good to see you.”

“I came here to talk to you, Ashley. I really would like some information. Can you…do you have time?”

Ashley looked at the clock on the opposite wall.

“A few minutes.”

They stepped off to the side, allowing a customer access to the coolers, and Sarah took stock of her friend’s face, the healthy glow, the wide eyes, no longer hooded, frightened.

“You look good.”

“I am. I’m in a good place in my life. Mike is really straightening up, and we’re better. I’m better. Actually, Sarah, I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me over these past few years. You saved my life, really. I want you to know I’m grateful. You know, like, appreciative.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Sarah said.

“Oh yes. Yes, you did.”

“Can I ask you one question, please?”

“Sure.”

“How much do you know about the barn fires?”

Ashley stood still, her eyes averted, the shapeless sweatshirt hiding her thin figure, her fingers clutching the bands of the long sleeves.

The door opened and closed, the cash register whirred quietly, voices mingled, and still Ashley remained quiet.

Finally she sighed.

“A lot, Sarah. Way too much. It has to end, I know. In the past, I was afraid. I’m not anymore. It’s weird, but I don’t care anymore. He can just kill me. He threatened too many times. But his…”

“Ashley!” A large, buxom woman called from the register, her eyes snapping, her arm motioning Ashley over.

“You’re needed on the other register!”

There was nothing to do but leave. Sarah walked by the register, waved, and was astonishingly rewarded with a genuine smile from Ashley who put her hand to her mouth, then flung it outward, a kiss thrown with a quick smile of love and friendship.

“Thanks!” Sarah mouthed, then hurried out of the market and dashed across the parking lot.

Deep in thought, she loosened the nylon neck rope and swept the heavy horse blanket off Fred’s back with one swoop. She grabbed the reins and made a short turn, the steel rims of the buggy wheels grating against the cast iron roller on the side of the buggy, strategically placed to allow such turns.

Straining to see, holding Fred to a standstill, she waited patiently as the line of cars crept past. Then she loosened the reins and chirped, urging him out onto the busy roadway, the main route between Lancaster and the village of Intercourse.

Christmas wreaths, roping, holly, doors decorated for the season
—
houses everywhere were decked in holiday finery, Sarah observed. A wonderful time of the year, she thought.

Sometimes she wondered what it would be like to decorate a tree or hang a wreath or string bright lights along the eaves of a house. Keeping the Plain tradition, these things were viewed as frivolous, unnecessary, but Sarah enjoyed them on English houses, nevertheless.

She was always glad for the gifts they gave and received, the Christmas cards they sent, the cookies and treats they made, keeping the spirit of Christmas alive in their simple, Amish way.

Happiness was doubled for her, thinking of Ashley’s recovery, the light in her blue-gray eyes.

Well, the problem wasn’t Mike, her boyfriend, evidently. Who had threatened her? Surely not her father.

She watched absentmindedly as four mules pulled a manure spreader over the half frozen ground, their ears bobbing randomly, flopping up and down as their heads moved in time to their steps. The manure spewed out of the rattling spreader, inexpensive fertilizer for the fields, a boon for next year’s corn crop.

Fred plodded along, slowing as they neared Bird-in-Hand, trying to veer off the roadway onto a side road leading toward home. Sarah had to open the window and slap his rump lightly with the reins.

“Come on, Fred. You’re just lazy,” she called, then closed the window and snapped it shut, satisfied when Fred changed his gait to a brisk pace.

She wiped the top of the wooden glove compartment with a gloved hand, opened the door only a crack, and shook out the accumulated horse hairs.

In winter, the horses’ coats grew thick and heavy. The loose hairs somehow found their way into the smallest openings, clinging to lap robes and purses and gallons of milk or containers of food or plastic grocery bags.

At the Country Cupboard, Sarah greeted the cashier, then placed a few small tablets, packets of erasers, key chains, balloons, anything she imagined would please the children into her basket.

She thought wistfully of having a Christmas program but immediately changed her mind, knowing she had a long uphill road to travel before that was possible.

She picked up a package of clothespins for Mam and a few dishcloths, then stood in line at the cash register.

“Hey, Sarah.”

Sarah turned to see Hannah, Matthew’s mother, directly behind her, her eyes bright with interest, but a certain wariness in them as well.

“Hannah! My, it’s good to see you. I miss you. You never come to the house anymore to see Mam.”

“Oh, Sarah. I know. Too many things happened between us. Too many.”

Sarah nodded as tears came unbidden.

“Matthew’s coming home!”

Hannah leaned forward and whispered, her eyes shifting, making sure no one overheard, as if Matthew’s appearance, his return from Haiti, would be heralded with the same welcome as a tornado or some other natural disaster.

“Really?”

“Yes. He’s coming alone. His wife is ill.”

“Why would he leave her then?”

“Oh, she has her parents, he said.”

“I guess.”

“Yes. She’s really close to them.”

“That’s good.”

“Come visit when Matthew’s here.”

“Why would I?”

“Well, Sarah, you’re friends. You’re good friends. He’ll want to see you.”

Sarah’s face reddened. She said goodbye, exiting the store as quickly as possible, blindly loosening the neck rope, almost driving directly into a parked mini-van.

No, we’re not friends. I am still Matthew’s broken-hearted girlfriend, a recovering love addict. The sight of him would be enough to make me relapse completely.

Hannah would never understand.

It was on the front page of the
Intelligencer Journal
, the Lancaster daily newspaper. It was on the local radio station, on CNN and Fox News, but of course, the Amish people didn’t know that. Only the ones who received the daily paper scanned the article, clucked, and shook their heads at the girl’s young age.

Only twenty, they said.
Hesslich shaut
(Such a shame).

There were no alcohol or drugs involved. Ashley Walters had been flown to Hershey Medical Center, air-lifted after a horrible wreck, the small, white Honda she was driving folded like an accordion beneath the stainless steel tank of an oncoming milk truck.

She died there, alone, only a few minutes after she arrived at the vast hospital.

Sarah found out when she came home from school. She listened, openmouthed, as her mother brought her the daily paper. She crumpled immediately onto a kitchen chair, her head bent over the paper, one leg folded beneath her.

“Oh, Mam!” she wailed after she finished reading the article. Mam stood behind Sarah, a hand on the back of her chair.

“You don’t think she did it on purpose?”

Sarah shook her head as tears streamed down her cheeks. “No, no. Absolutely not. The last time I spoke to her she was happier than I’ve ever seen her. I just can’t grasp this.”

Levi was saddened by Ashley’s death, saying it really was
unbegreiflich
(unbelievable). He asked to be taken to her viewing, if Dat and Mam would take him.

Sarah wished Ashley had not been so alone when she died. She hoped fervently she had been conscious of nothing after the wreck. Sarah couldn’t eat her supper, couldn’t fall asleep, thinking of Ashley hitting the underside of the unyielding tanker, so small, so innocent, so alone.

She threw back the covers and got down on her knees beside the bed, cupped her face in her hands, and stayed there, praying, even though she knew Ashley had already died. What sense did it make praying for her soul? But it was comforting, instilling a certain peace throughout her.

What had Dat said about Ashley?

God loved her, too. She was important to Him.

Sarah figured God cared very much about Ashley’s soul and would take care of her,
fer-sark
her.

Who could tell what upbringing the poor girl had had? Her mother living thousands of miles away, her father threatening. Or had he been? Would they ever know?

Three evenings later, the Beiler family dressed in funeral black. Dat and Levi wore blue shirts, crisp, homemade, ironed carefully, their high-topped, black Sunday shoes gleaming, their felt hats placed securely on their heads. Mam wore her black shawl and bonnet, the girls their woolen pea coats.

It seemed like such a short time since Mervin’s viewing had taken place, and now they reached out to whoever had loved Ashley, broken family or not. Death was a universal bond, grief a language everyone understood. No culture was unique at the time of a death, the sorrow keenly felt by those who had experienced it before.

They helped Levi into the van, using a step stool and steadying his shaking legs, Mam’s hand on his back, Dat holding onto the stool in the cold, December wind, his
mutsa
(Sunday coat) blowing up as he bent over.

Levi grunted, pulled himself up, and sat heavily in the front seat, his eyes alight with bird-like curiosity, before asking, “Who is the driver?”

The name was supplied
—
Randy Stover, a man who was fairly new in the business of driving the Amish.

“Well, good evening, Randy. I’m glad to meet you. I’m Levi Beiler.”

Randy smiled, politely exchanged pleasantries with Dat, and listened carefully as Levi informed him he was going to the city of Lancaster and not to a dentist or doctor.

“Nothing’s going to hurt this round, Randy,” he announced, giggling jubilantly. Then Levi turned to his father. “Can we stop at McDonald’s, Dat?”

When Dat gave no immediate answer, Levi informed him that the last time he had had a Big Mac it was summertime, hot.

Dat smiled and said alright, Levi, which satisfied his inquiry.

The city of Lancaster was a frightening place on a dark December night, even if lights illuminated every sidewalk and street corner.

The funeral home was a lavish, stone building on King Street, a fancy canopy erected over the front stoop, brick pathways winding between exotic shrubbery and trees.

The parking lot was empty, or almost, and Sarah’s heart felt dark and heavy for her friend. Surely someone was there for her. Someone cared.

They helped Levi down from the high van seat, explaining patiently that this was a viewing, like Mervin’s, and he had to stay nice and quiet. If he obeyed, they would buy him a Big Mac at McDonald’s on the way home.

Silently, they moved as one. A small group of Amish people dressed in black, going to pay their last respects to a new acquaintance.

There was no one standing in line. A handful of people were gathered at the end of a long corridor, an open book on a gleaming wooden stand nearby. Heavy carpeting muted their steps, and Dat stood respectfully aside as Mam bent to sign their names.

He took off his hat then, carrying it by his side, whispering to Levi to do the same. Levi had a steady look of concentration on his face, so Sarah knew he would obey perfectly, his reward a calorie-laden treat.

The coffin was set in a warmly lit alcove, a few bouquets of flowers set at attractive angles around it. Surprisingly, the coffin was opulent, lined with white satin, lavishly carved and decorated, a cascade of white lilies spilling across the top.

Sarah recognized Mike, who appeared extremely nervous, wild-eyed, as they approached.

A handshake from Dat changed that, a hand to his shoulder altered the look completely, as his face crumpled and he turned away, his shoulders heaving.

Instant tears welled up in Sarah’s eyes as Dat stayed with Mike, speaking kind words of condolence to the distraught youth.

They moved on to greet the man and woman standing at the head of the coffin, shook hands, introduced themselves. Mam was pulled into the elegantly dressed woman’s embrace, then each of the girls in turn.

Dat repeated his kind gestures to the man, who was dressed in an expensive suit, his face openly curious.

Finally, the woman introduced herself as Ashley’s mother from Fresno, California.

“My husband, Andrew.”

Sarah stood and looked at Ashley, lying so still and lifeless, her face patched together and barely recognizable to her.