Missing Your Smile (35 page)

This street was not as crowded as the one she had just left. In fact, she found it eerily quiet. There were no shops here—and thus no strolling shoppers. Susan quickened her pace. Seconds later she felt a wrench of pain on her arm, spinning her around, burning. Her purse was being pulled off her arm! Susan struggled to keep her balance, her fingers still grasping the strap. With a great upward jerk of his hands, a young man threw her off balance. She went crashing to the sidewalk, sliding on both hands. Her purse had been stolen! And in broad daylight on Main Street!

Struggling to stand and eyeing her bleeding hands, she turned toward the running thief. “Stop! Give me back my purse!”

She couldn't afford to lose the purse. There was the little money she had in it, and her learner's permit, and, more importantly, the key to her apartment.

The man was already half a block away, glancing over his shoulder and even laughing at her. Where had the strolling couples gone now that she needed them? Likely an empty street was what the rascal had waited for to inflict this indignity on her.

Now what am I supposed to do?
She couldn't go running after him like an
Englisha
girl might. But wasn't she now trying to be an
Englisha
girl? Her Amish ways must be left behind. Surely
Englisha
girls didn't allow their purses to be stolen without protest.

Well, she would see then. He was still running, just turning a corner. She made the decision.
Yah
. She hadn't grown up running across hay fields for nothing. She took off after him at a fast clip. Once she turned the corner, he turned to look back at her, and she almost laughed at the startled look on his face.
Perhaps
Englisha
girls don't pursue their muggers after all
, she thought.

He dashed across an intersection, defying the red light, maneuvering around moving cars. Susan did likewise. Even as a car squealed its brakes, she kept going. And
gut
, it looked like the man was panting hard.

Up ahead there were a few scattered pedestrians. Again Susan hollered, “Stop him! He stole my purse!”

Two nearby men reached for the thief as he passed their way, but he dodged them at the last moment. Susan ran on, hollering, “Drop it!”

The man met her eyes, and she saw fear in them. He quickly swerved down an alley.
The rascal
, she thought. Well, he still wasn't going to get away with this. She followed him into the alley and out onto the next street. By now she had gained on him. She was only yards away.
What do I do when I catch him?
She wasn't about to tackle him. Even Amish girls had their limits.

The thief slowed down and so did she. She wanted her purse, but how close could she get to the man and not be in danger? He was now panting so hard he could hardly breathe. This time there was no alley at hand.

“Give me the purse!” she yelled again.

“Give the lady her purse,” a voice behind her said.

Susan turned, surprised. She hadn't heard someone walk up.

“I said give the purse back.” The man glared over Susan's shoulder. “You heard me.”

His voice was deep and gruff. He was tall, sturdy, and obviously knew how to handle this situation. It was
gut
to have him here.

The young thief glanced both ways, unable to make up his mind.
Mr. Gruff
walked around her and grabbed the thief by his shirt collar. He retrieved Susan's purse.

“Now, young lady, do you want me to haul him into the police station for you? Or can I beat him up right here?” Mr. Gruff asked.

“No, I can't let you do that,” Susan said draping the purse over her shoulder. “Maybe he's learned his lesson. Just let him go.”

“You sure, ma'am?”

“Yes,” Susan said.

Mr. Gruff released the thief, who took off running again.

“He might steal from someone else,” Mr. Gruff said. “You're not afraid to testify against him are you? Or do you know him perhaps?”

“No, I don't know him,” Susan said. “I don't want him to go to jail though.”

How did she explain something like this to a stranger? She wasn't supposed to chase the thief, let alone send him to prison. That was the Amish way, and though she was no longer Amish, old beliefs die hard.

“Bennett,” the gruff voice said, offering his hand.

She shook it. “I'm Susan. Thanks so much for your help. I couldn't have gotten my purse back without you.”

“Someone would have helped you, Susan.” He motioned toward two men just approaching. “Most people are nice around here. Sorry you had to experience this.”

“I'm still thankful,” she said. “It was nice of you.”

“You live around here?” he asked.

“I live over on Main Street. I have to head back or I'm going to be very late. Thanks again.”

“You were putting on quite a sprint there,” he said with a smile. “Are you a long-distance runner?”

“No,” she said with a laugh. “I just wanted my purse back.”

“You got it back. I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening, Susan,” Bennett said, turning to leave.

“I will. I hope you do too. God bless you!” Susan said as she too turned to leave.

Susan turned the key to the apartment door and rushed up the steps. Now she really was late, but at least she had her purse back. Running water into the sink, she washed the blood off her hands. Thankfully, there were only small scratches. She checked the time. Supper would be late, but that couldn't be helped. Opening the oven, she jabbed a fork into the roast. Just right. She turned the dial to off, removed the roast, and set it on the counter. She continued with the rest of the preparations.

Minutes later, Duane knocked on the door. Susan rushed down to greet him.

As she led him up the stairs, he said, “Wow, something sure smells good!”

“It's a roast. I hope you're hungry!”

“Of course,” he said. “I can't wait.”

“I have just a bit more to do. I'm afraid I got delayed.”

“Did you burn something and have to start over?” he teased.

Susan burst out laughing. “Do you think Amish women burn their meals?”

“No, but my mother often did. She wasn't Amish though. Late dinners at our house usually meant Mom burned something.”

“Why don't you have a seat while I finish?”

“So what happened?” he asked, pulling up a chair.

Susan turned to the stove and drained the potatoes. “Well, a thief stole my purse, and I chased him down,” she said with a grin, glancing over her shoulder.

“What?” he said, standing up.

“You don't believe me?” she asked, turning toward him. “I know it wasn't very Amish of me, but I couldn't afford to lose that purse. Besides, I'm trying to not be Amish.”

“I guess I believe you,” he said scratching his head. “I would have loved to be there to help out.”

“Well, thanks,” she said as she mashed the potatoes. “But someone else did the honors.” She told him the whole story, including her visit to Teresa's and concluded with, “Ta-da! Supper is ready!”

“Wow, everything looks good—really good,” he said.

Susan shrugged. “What can I say? Amish women know how to cook!”

They sat at the table and bowed their heads for prayer. Afterward, Susan passed him the potatoes, waiting until he had taken a large scoop before handing him the gravy bowl.

“Will you please slice the roast?” she asked.

“I'd be honored,” he said with a slight bow and smile.

He placed a slice of roast on her plate and then on his own.

She watched him eat out of the corner of her eye. Curious, she finally asked, “Is the food okay?”

“Oh, it's excellent!” he said as he helped himself to more roast.

Susan continued to watch as Duane focused on enjoying the meal. When he finally pushed his plate a few inches toward the middle of the table and let out a contented sigh, Susan said, “Pecan pie? With ice cream?”

“Dessert too?” he asked with wide eyes.

Duane with wide eyes over food? He's never looked that excited about food. Not at fancy restaurants, not at the bakery. But he is about my cooking!
She was grinning from ear to ear.

Suddenly and to Susan's surprise, Duane said, “I'm just too full. It must be the wholesomeness of your cooking. I really need to go. I don't want to keep you up late when you have to get up early for work at the bakery.”

“It's not late. You don't have to rush off,” she said.

“Thanks, Susan,” he said as he got up. “It's been a great evening. Maybe we can do this again sometime.”

“O–okay,” she said, still in shock. She followed him down the stairs.

He opened the door. “Goodnight” was all he said before he turned and disappeared under the dim light of the street lamps.

Susan locked the door and climbed the stairs again. She sat down at the kitchen table and buried her head in her hands.
What went wrong? Duane even forgot to help me with math—and that was the reason for his coming over in the first place. First Thomas and now Duane
…

M
enno Hostetler walked in from the barn, the evening sky already darkening behind him. Low thunderclouds were rolling in from the northeast. He paused to smell the air, remembering that his
Englisha
neighbor had said rain was coming.
This could just as easily be snow
, he decided.
Winter isn't far away
. Miriam and Joe were coming for Thanksgiving dinner today—a
gut
thing. He was pleased though tired. He shouldn't have been plowing all day yesterday, but someone had to do the work. Renting the place might be an option come spring, but what he really wanted for the farm was new blood and a fresh pair of hands. Someone who would own the place, not a renter whose heart came and left when his lease was up.

Menno let the screen door slam behind him, the report echoing in the washroom. He ran water into the sink. His hands were soaped by the time the hot water arrived. With a sigh, he rinsed them and wiped them dry. He looked at them. They were old hands now. The skin was wrinkled, showing the years of hard work. Did not the Holy Scripture say that a man's days were few and full of trouble? They had seemed few, and they were still full of trouble. Susan was seeing to that. But he shouldn't blame her, he supposed. He hadn't always lived his life the best way either.

“Are you coming in?” Anna called from the kitchen.

“
Yah!
” he hollered back, pushing open the kitchen door.

“I want you to read Susan's letter again,” Anna said.

“You told me what's in it,” he said.

Anna bustled about, putting the last touches on their Thanksgiving fare spread out on the table. “A fresh set of eyes might see something I haven't. And Joe and Miriam are coming any minute. Perhaps they would have some advice. We can't just bury this problem in the sand any longer, Menno. You know that.”

“Okay.” He got up. “Where's the letter?”

“On the desk,” she said.

He took the letter to his old rocker and lowered his weary body down. Pulling the single piece of paper out of the envelope, he unfolded it.

Susan's handwriting was still beautiful, a graceful cursive that lifted off the lines to descend again in perfect harmony. He shook his head, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

Dear
Mamm
and
Daett,

Greetings in the name of the Lord
.

I hope this finds you well, and that little Jonas fully recovered from his hog bites. That was quite a terrible thing to have happen. I called Edna's phone shack afterward using a cell phone I borrowed. Since I haven't heard anything more by now, I assume his recovery is coming along well
.