Heritage of Lancaster County 03 The Reckoning (2 page)

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were in town visiting an elderly uncle who lived in a nursing home a few blocks away.

"Nursing home? There are some folks who don't ever need such places for their elderly." The comment slipped out before he realized what he'd said.

The girl, about fifteen, looked startled. "Are you talking about Amish people?"

He did not wish to reveal his ties to the Plain community but felt the need to explain. "Both the Amish and Mennonites often look after their aging relatives."

She studied him curiously. "You seem, uh... you must be . . . Plain yourself."

So the girl had guessed it, in spite of his tailored suit and colorful tie. Perhaps it was because of the lingering Pennsylvania Dutch accent, beard, and the absence of a mustache. "Well, not anymore," he replied.

She seemed rather excited about this admission. "Is it true that the Amish never buy medical insurance?"

"We ... uh, they don't need insurance. Their people grow old at home, surrounded by the extended family." He explained how it was commonplace for families to build on additions to their houses, making space for aging parents and grandparents.

"One big happy family?" She laughed good-naturedly. "You could say that."

Her mother spoke up. "Did you ever ride in a horse-drawn buggy?"

He chuckled. "Always."

"Why not cars?" asked the man from Kansas.

"We could ride in them, just as long as someone else did the driving--someone English."

"English?" the girl's mother said.

"Amish refer to outsiders that way. You're either Amish or English."

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"

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A frown appeared on the girl's face. "What's so terrible about owning a car?"

He sighed, remembering the Ordnung and its grip on his former life. "Cars offer too much freedom.., makes it too easy to abandon one's important family life."

The topic drew the rest of the folk like a magnet. "What was it really like growing up without cars or electricity?" asked one.

Dan was taken aback by their eagerness, their curiosity, having nearly forgotten the many years of answering similar questions from tourists who flocked to Pennsylvania, their cameras poised for sneak shots of the "horse-and-buggy people."

"Well, my Dat used to say 'Yer never gonna miss whatcha never had,' so I guess that's how it was."

They chuckled at the dialect. "Do you speak Dutch?" the teenager asked.

"Jah, but not so much anymore. That part of my life is all but over for me now." He paused, reaching for his napkin and wiping his mouth. "I've come to know a better way. Some of the People back home tend t disagree with me, though I know a good many Plain folk who've experienced God's gift of salvation through grace, same as I have."

The girl's eyes lit up with recognition. "Morn and I are Christians, too." She turned to nod at her mother.

Dan smiled, continuing the conversation and enjoying the opportunity to share and witness at the same table. Later, when asked again about his childhood, he replied, "Unless you've grown up Amish, it's hard to explain. The life, in general, is quite simple, yet mighty hard all the same, and there's often a price to be paid."

The girl was about to speak, but the man from Kansas said, "We have Amish and Mennonite settlements scattered in different parts of our state. What's confusing to me is the way they dress--they all look a little bit different."

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Dan agreed. "Like Heinz--fifty-seven varieties, right?" That got them laughing, though he hadn't intended to poke fun.

"What about shunning?" the girl asked. "Do Amish actually kick their people out of church for disobeying rules?"

Dan felt a twinge. Though he hadn't actually suffered the sting of excommunication directly, he figured Bishop John Beiler and the Hickory Hollow membership had most likely started his initial six weeks of shunning probation. "Some groups still ban unrepentant members, but there are large church districts in Ohio, for instance, that have split away from the stricter groups, because they couldn't see eye to eye on shunning practices."

She shook her head. "A heartless thing, seems to me." "Cruel, in many cases, but its legitimate origins are found in the New Testament, nevertheless." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I'd have to say, though, that too often folks are shunned for mighty petty transgressions." At their urging he mentioned one instance: a man's hat brim--just one quarter inch too wide. " 'Worldly,' the bishop called it. And because the fellow was too stubborn to confess and buy another hat, he was cast out of the church and the community, severely shunned." That brought a few muffled snickers and even more ardent discussion. Dan, however, was especially grateful that no one pressed him for answers as to why he'd left Hickory Hollow.

Moments later the hostess came in to clear the table, an unspoken cue for her guests to wind things up. Dan observed the hasty brushing off of crumbs and the removal of water glasses and took the hint.

"Very nice chatting with you," he said to the group.

The girl followed her mother out of the room but stopped to say, "Have a nice day!"

"Thank you, and God bless you, young lady."

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A nice day, indeed! Come rain or come shine, he was off to see his Katie girl!

He headed upstairs to wash his face and brush his teeth once again. Eager for the day, this first encounter after years of separation, he knelt at the desk chair and prayed for divine guidance. "Assist me, Father, as I speak the words of truth.., surprising as they will sound to Katie's tender ears. I pray that she may receive me with an understanding heart, that I might be a witness of your saving grace and love." He hesitated for a moment. "And if it be your will, I ask that in due time, I may woo her back to the love we once knew. In Christ's name. Amen."

He left by way of the front walk, glancing upward through bare tree branches. The sky had grown dark, now an ominous charcoal gray. The air was brittle and cold, sharp against the throat. He was glad for his fur-trimmed overcoat and leather gloves as he walked briskly to his rental car, city map in hand.

Katherine scoured each of the closets on the main level of the mansion, looking for her mother's journal. One after another, she discovered well-organized linen closets--tidy stacks of velvety monogrammed towels, satin bed sheets, and plush blankets--and now this closet not far from her own suite of rooms.

She removed folded sheets from the bottom, then moved on to the next shelf, inspecting each piece of linen, including doilies and crocheted dresser runners on the middle shelf and the one above, stacked clear to the ceiling. There were numerous seasonal items--damask tablecloths and napkins in every hue imaginable, matching napkin rings, and floral table accessories.

When she had completed her rummaging, Katherine

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closed the door and headed upstairs to the spacious sun- room. Her ailing birth mother had spent many hours soaking up warm, healing rays in this room, praying for a reprieve from her pain.

With a sigh, she settled on the chaise lounge nearest the south exposure. Where did Laura keep her diary? she wondered. Where?

Katherine thought of Lydia Miller, her Mennonite relative, who--right this instant--would doubtless be encouraging her to seek divine assistance in this frustrating matter; that is, if Lydia lived close enough to be aware of the problem. The woman prayed about everything, no matter how incidental.

In like fashion, Laura Mayfield had often prayed, beseeching the Lord in conversational tones. Rosie Taylor-- her birth mother's longtime personal maid and now Katherine's-had recounted the prayers she and Laura had shared during the weeks before Laura's passing.

"Your dear mother prayed in earnest for you," Rosie told

her one evening as they sat by the fire in the library. "That I'd be found?"

"Indeed, yes. She prayed faithfully that you would come to her before the MS made her mind hazy or confused. With all of her heart, she wanted to get to know you before she died. But in spite of her pain, in spite of her longing to see her daughter again, she was deeply grateful for life. Each new day was another opportunity to rejoice in her Savior."

Her Savior. Rosie had mentioned the name with such reverence and joy. It was obvious to Katherine that the devoted housemaid and her husband--Fulton, the butler-- had found salvation, same as Laura.

So Katherine had been surrounded by prayer. "All these years," she whispered, leaning back with her head against the soft chaise pillow. She wondered if it had been Laura's prayers that ultimately had brought her here to Mayfield

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Manor. If so, what of Rebecca Lapp's? Surely she, too, was pleading with the Lord God heavenly Father for her adopted daughter's return. How, then, could both women's requests be heard and answered?

She didn't rightly know but pondered the question. Her eyes took in the lush green ferns and other plants in matching terra-cotta pottery, and she tried to relax in the luxurious room, far removed from the hustle and bustle of modern-day life. It provided all the conveniences she'd always longed for.

Suddenly thirsty, she noticed the pitcher of ice water and several clean glasses facedown on a tray next to her. Pouring herself a glassful of water, she began to hum softly. The song was one of the many she had made up over the years. Forbidden, according to the Ordnung of the People.

Crossing her legs in front of her on the chaise, she sang her song, taking occasional sips. Something about the clear, cool taste of the water or the way the ice cubes clinked against the sides brought to mind an Ascension Day picnic she had attended with her parents and brothers when she was only eight years old ....

It was at Uncle Moses Lapp's farmhouse situated on a broad bend of Weaver's Creek, several miles from Hickory Hollow, that the sun beat down hard on little Katie's back as she stood on the front porch step, gulping down a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade.

"You'll have yourself a headache if ya drink too fast," Mamma called from the shadows, rocking and fanning herself to beat the band.

"Ach, Mamma, it's so awful hot," she complained, holding out her glass. "Please, mayn't I have more?"

Mare obliged cheerfully, getting up and going inside to bring out the entire pitcher. "Here's just for my little girl." She poured the sweetened lemonade into Katie's glass.

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"Ach, young Katie's spoilt, I'd say," whispered Mammi Essie. "Ain't so?"

The other women--her mamma's married sisters, Nancy Yoder and Naomi Zook; feisty Cousin Mattie Beiler, the midwife; and three aunts, including Ella Mae, the Wise Woman--all of them, just kept a-rockin' and a-fannin', the strings from their prayer veils floating forward and back, forward and back. Katie couldn't rightly tell if the womenfolk were agreeing with her mamma's mother or trying to ignore Essie, the way they were known to on occasion.

Never mind them, she decided and poured herself a third glass and guzzled it right down in front of them. Satisfied, she went to sit under the porch in a sort of nesting spot where the shade was cool and damp, the breeze sweet, and the listening-in right fine. Happy to have chosen this private place away from the critical eye of Mammi Essie, she folded her long dress tightly around her legs so no es Mickevieh-- pest of flies--might go aosoaring up her skirt. She sighed, pushing stray wisps of hair back into the braids that wound around her sweaty head.

She stared out across the yard and over to the barn. On past the newly plowed corn and potato fields to the ridge of trees in the distance. The landscape was as familiar to her as the seams that ran up and down the inside of her long dress and apron. This land was her home, her world.

Above her, the gossips and storytellers of the homeland took turns talking in their native tongue. The rolling thump- a-thump of hickory rockers overhead lulled her for a time, and she was comforted by the sounds of the familiar.

Leaning back on her hands, the dirt dug into her palms, making prickly indentations. Uncaring, she whispered to herself, feeling terribly pleased about it, "I'm spoilt because Mamma loves me."

At that moment, nothing else much mattered.

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Katherine stretched her arms up behind her head as she lay on the chaise, wondering what Grossmutter Essie would think of her now. Would she say Rebecca's spoiled daughter was much too pampered, living like a princess in a New York mansion far from home? What would she think of the gourmet cooks and sumptuous meals, the staff of servants.., the housemaids? And the rayon trousers, silk blouses, and angora sweaters Katherine now loved to wear?

She took another long drink from her glass. What Essie King, or anybody else, might think about her now was irrelevant. This was the fancy sort of English life she'd longed for as long as she could remember.

The sun had disappeared, devoured by a slate gray bank of clouds that seemed to spread its vastness from the horizon directly toward her. She felt the cold of the glass begin to seep into her, making her feel chilly, and without a second thought, she got up and turned on the space heater fixed in the wall. Returning to the chaise, she felt gleeful at having flicked a switch, producing warmth at will.

Music filtered through the intercom on the far wall, and she silently congratulated herself on recognizing the com- poser-Johann Sebastian Bach--who, had he been Amish, would have fit right in, what with the twenty children he helped produce. But then again, the prolific side of Bach's musical creativity would have posed a problem for the People. A source of contention, they might have decided.

Thinking on this, she tried to hum along a passage here and there, not in defiance of her past--no need--but merely enjoying the moment.

When she was fully rested, she got up, turned off the wall heater and headed downstairs to her private quarters. There she began to play her guitar, thinking of Mary Stoltz- fus.

Mary.

Such a beautiful, perfect name for a woman. One who

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had always tried to do the right thing before God. To think that Mary had secretly written her a note back before Christmas was right surprising, to say the least. Yet Katherine couldn't blame her friend for doing such a disobedient thing. Cords of sisterly love were mighty strong between the two.