The Crossroad (20 page)

Susanna’s sleep was fitful. She tossed so much she worried she might wake up Benjamin, and that would never do. Slipping out of bed and heading downstairs, she went to sit in the parlor for a bit. She hadn’t turned on the hall light, though she knew she oughta, ’specially since Ben was forever warnin’ her not to “creep ’round the house at night in the dark.” Well, they’d grown up thataway—with little or dim light, at best—so she figured she was used to it. Had only experienced the luxury of electricity for a little more than two years now, ’cause Bishop Seth had permitted it—due to the B&B. She and Ben had agreed it was best to continue with oil lamps in their own private quarters, obeying the bishop on the issue.

’Course, they’d just gotten word that Seth Fisher was dead now—and would be buried soon. She wondered who’d be drawin’ the lot to fill his position in the church district. Any number of preachers ’round the area would do. But she hoped it might be God’s will for Preacher King to be their new bishop, the man who’d helped them oust Gabe Esh ever so secretly forty long years ago. She couldn’t help but think the People would be needin’ a grieving period. Seemed only
kluuch
—prudent—that they not replace the bishop too soon, but she, bein’ a woman, had no say ’bout such matters whatever.

All the talk in the community just now was that Bishop Seth had gotten salvation just before Christmas, thanks to Lavina spreadin’ the word ’bout it. Only thing was, the People—for the most part—didn’t believe it, ’cause it sounded downright fishy. ’Specially comin’ from a simple-minded woman. A shunned one at that.

When Susanna had asked Benjamin ’bout the day he took Lavina over to the Fishers’, Ben had clammed right up, lookin’ a mite peaked, too. She’d wondered why and pushed for an answer.

“Ach, don’t be so nosy, Susie,” he’d chided her.

“I don’t mean to be,” she’d said softly.

“Well, ya are, and that’s all there is to it!”

In spite of Ben’s blunt retort, Susanna still s’posed there oughta be someone who knew what had happened while Lavina talked to the bishop on his sickbed. After all, where was Rosemary during all the supposed soulsavin’ goings-on? Well, she’d just hafta go over and pay her respects to the bishop’s wife before too long. Tomorrow after preachin’ service, maybe.

Climbing back up the steps to their bedroom, she thought again of the Scriptures she’d read before retiring. They just kept a-goin’ ’round and ’round in her head, and before she slipped under the covers again, she opened the old German Bible to the now-familiar passages. Just then, as she was reading, she thought of Rachel, wondering if she might not be talkin’ to Philip Bradley ’bout all the Bible lessons she’d learned from Esther.

Susanna didn’t quite know why the thought popped in her head just now, but she had a strange feelin’ Philip was gonna be hearing ’bout them verses one way or the other. Why, the way Levi Glick had launched off on his view of Scripture and such things this afternoon—right there in the living room—she had a powerful feeling Rachel would also be sharin’ some of the same things.

Here lately, it seemed her daughter couldn’t stop talking ’bout the Lord, repentance, and whatnot all. Susanna had truly wanted to put a stop to it in the worst way, but something kept her from confronting Esther like she’d wanted to. Something
else
was keeping her from worrying so awful much ’bout Rachel tonight, too. Truth be told, she didn’t know why she hadn’t thrown at least a slight fit when Philip wanted to rent a room for the night. Why on earth had she agreed to take his reservation and his money?

What
had
come over her?

Before heading south toward the highway, Philip suggested they stop for coffee at one of the restaurants that was actually open on the holiday. “It’s still early,” he said, opening the car door for Rachel. “Are you hungry?”

“Let’s see what’s on the menu,” she said, taking his arm.

He noticed for the first time that Rachel had come without her walking cane. Had she merely forgotten? Deciding not to inquire, he led her carefully into the restaurant, pointing out each step along the way.

Inside, they followed the hostess to a table near the back of the restaurant. The woman looked them over rather indiscreetly. Philip supposed they did make an odd-looking couple—Rachel in her cape dress and apron, and he in his dress slacks and sports jacket. But then, how would anyone know for sure that they weren’t simply brother and sister? The “brother” having left the fold of the People—or never joined—and the “sister” … well, it was quite obvious where her church loyalties stood.

They sat facing each other in a padded tan booth. Philip leaned back, inhaling slowly as he studied the woman across the table. “I think it’s time we had a real supper,” he offered.

“I’m not
that
hungry,” she replied, smiling.

“I suppose not, after cake and punch.”

“And Esther’s turkey sandwiches earlier,” she reminded him.

“You’ll have to tell Esther thank-you.”

She smiled unexpectedly. “You can tell her if you like. Remember, we’ll all be goin’ to the Crossroad tomorrow.”

Philip wouldn’t risk saying that he’d nearly forgotten the plans to ride in a horse and buggy, accompanying Rachel and her Ohio cousins to the busy intersection.

“Are you sure you’re ready to go to the Crossroad, Rachel? I mean, do you feel comfortable with the thought?”

She blinked her eyes several times before she answered, almost as if trying to see him. “I believe I’m ready for whatever the Lord wants me to experience,” she said softly.

Rachel’s face was lovely and smooth; even without makeup she was truly beautiful. Eyebrows perfectly arched, cheekbones well formed, and lips … He stopped his analysis there. “I’ll pray that the Crossroad will bring you the healing you long for.”

“That’s just what I’ve been asking the Lord to do. I believe He will heal me … tomorrow!” she whispered emphatically.

Such faith he had never witnessed. Rachel literally glowed with anticipation, and he felt, for a moment, that he, too, was catching her vision of hope. “More than anything, I wish that for you.”

“Denki,” she said, nodding her head sweetly.

And it was then he noticed again the gentle curl of her hair, where a strand or two had sprung free at her neck.

He almost told her how pretty she looked in the vibrant blue dress and white apron—Sunday attire, he supposed—instead of the gray and black mourning clothes he’d become accustomed to seeing her wear. But he caught himself, coming to his senses just as the waitress arrived at their table, bringing two water glasses and a fistful of clean utensils.

“I’m very sorry, Miss,” Philip said, begging for more time. “The lady and I haven’t even looked at the menu yet.”

The waitress glanced at them, offering the same shrewd smile that Adele had given him earlier. “I’ll come back in a few minutes.”

“I appreciate it,” he said, realizing his mouth had suddenly become dry. He reached for his glass of water just as Rachel put her hand out, seeking her own glass. Without thinking how Rachel might react, he touched her hand lightly, guiding it.

“Oh!” Her face flushed instantly.

He wished to slow his heart, wished he could think more clearly. Could it be that Adele’s assessment was correct? Was he actually fond of the blind widow before him? “Annie … uh … how’s your little girl?” he blurted the ridiculous transition.

“Ach, a happy one, she is” came the sweet, yet baffled reply.

Each time Rachel spoke, he attempted to figure out what her vernacular style reminded him of—aside from the initial conversations of the past fall when he’d first met the reticent young Amishwoman. It was unlike any dialect he’d ever encountered anywhere. Except, perhaps, the “village talk” he’d come across during his school vacations spent in an isolated sector of southern Vermont. There he had listened in on a few old codgers, tottering friends of his grandpap. Folk who sat in ancient rocking chairs, watching the sun go down from their paint-peeled porches, sipping iced tea. Every summer night without fail. “Tip-top entertainment, yes, indeedy,” one old gentleman had lisped through missing teeth, in regard to the sunset. Philip had never forgotten.

“Will Annie attend school next year?” he asked, shaking off thoughts of New England.

Rachel nodded. “She missed going this year by a few months, but I think she’ll be ready come next fall.”

“What a wonderful little girl.”

“Jah, and she likes you,
Mister
Philip.”

They laughed together, which broke the ice even more. And that was an excellent thing, he decided, because the way things had been going for the past few minutes, he was beginning to wonder if stopping off here for a bite was a mistake. Perhaps talking while driving toward Lancaster might’ve been a better choice for them. But the truth was, he felt drawn to Rachel and wanted to get to know her better.

Shifting to his journalistic mode, he asked if she’d mind answering a question or two about the Plain life. “I know from the things Adele Herr shared about Gabe, there were one-room schoolhouses for the Amish children back in the sixties. Is that still the case?”

“Jah, they go through eighth grade.”

“Then what, after that?”

She cocked her head as if recalling a distant memory. “Most of the boys work alongside their fathers, same as the girls do. We go back home to our mammas, learnin’ how to can and quilt and keep house—that is, if we didn’t already know how by that time.”

“And if you did already know those things, what then?”

“There’s ever so much to know ’bout a woman’s duties.”

“Then are you saying that women and men have specific chores? That men, for instance, wouldn’t clean or cook?”

Rachel actually giggled. “Not to laugh at you, but no, they wouldn’t think of doin’ our work. The men know what’s expected of them; so do the women.”

“And just what
is
expected of an Amishman?” He was aware of his own voice, that he was speaking much softer now, and he leaned forward, his elbows on the table, peering into Rachel’s lovely face.

“Outside work,” she replied. “A young boy is trained to work with his father and older brothers in the barn, the tobacco shed, the fields. That way, when the time comes for him to finish up with book learnin’, he can help farm the land or help his pop in the woodworkin’ business or blacksmithing.”

When she mentioned blacksmithing, he noticed she raised her eyebrows awkwardly, then shook her head as if she wished she hadn’t alluded to that particular job. “What is it, Rachel?”

“Oh my.” She looked positively flustered. “I don’t know what came over me just now—bringin’ up the job of a smithy and all.”

“Because of John Lapp’s visit?”

She put her hand to her throat. “Himmel! I’d never want to go anywhere with that man!” she confessed, spilling the words out like he’d never known her to do. “He is overbearing and outspoken. And Mam should’ve never invited him for Christmas dinner, for goodness’ sake!”

“Your mother did?”

She folded her hands on the table in front of her. “It’s our way. We often ask folk in at Christmas. But ever since I quit wearin’ my mourning clothes, Mam has made it her duty to try ’n match me up with someone.”

“Why is that so annoying?”

“I’m a grown woman. I can go ’bout my life without help from Mam.”

“This must bother you a great deal.” He could see from the frown on her face that it did.

“Jah, ever so much.” Rachel sighed, then continued. “It’s not such a carefree thing to be a young widow in the Amish community. People talk; they hope to put widowers together with younger women who’ve lost their husbands. All for bearin’ more babies—future church members—especially the Old Order folk feel that way.”

“So … the more children born, the better?”

“That’s right.”

The waitress was heading their way again, and they still had not looked over the menu. “What’s your special tonight?” he asked the woman in the pale green waitress outfit.

“It’s our Christmas special—chicken and dumplings” was the quick reply. “Would you care for that?”

“Does that sound good to you?” he asked Rachel.

She nodded her head bashfully, her eyes cast down, and Philip ordered the same. “With black coffee, please.”

“I’ll stick with water to drink,” Rachel said.

Quickly, they resumed their conversation, and Philip was amazed that they’d fallen into the same comfortable dialogue they had experienced last fall on their drive home from the Reading cemetery. How was it that a young Amishwoman and a modern journalist could have this kind of rapport? How? He didn’t understand in the least, but he knew it was a reality. Their spirits had found communion. Yes, he preferred that far better than the secular terminology of “soul mates.” More suitable for two people who loved the Lord and wanted, above all things, to serve and honor Him.

“Tell me ’bout the information you brought for me,” Rachel said out of the blue. “On my blindness.”

He was quite surprised, but pleased, that she had inquired about it and began to recount the information to the best of his ability. More than ever, he believed Rachel was ready to receive the help she surely needed.

During the drive back to Bird-in-Hand, Rachel explained for Philip what
ach
meant. He said he’d heard the word used often while in the Lancaster area and was curious.

“It just means ‘oh!’—that’s all.”

“Oh.”

“No …
ach
.” He laughed at that, and she honestly didn’t know what came over her to joke with him that way. ’Course she would never say she felt homelike with him. Prob’ly didn’t need to, now that she thought ’bout it.

They fell to talkin’ of less serious things. He wanted to know if she ever visited with Emma at the antique store in Bird-in-Hand village.

“Every so often Mam goes there to look at Emma’s new items, but it’s been a while now since I’ve gone. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been thinking that I might order a desk, something similar to the one in the guest room where I’ll be staying again.”

“It’s a nice piece,” she said, though she’d never laid eyes on it, only dusted its pigeonholes. “Mam’s mighty glad to have it.”