The Postcard (25 page)

Susanna brought the mail inside, eyeing a tape mailer from Ohio. She assumed the package was another one of those spoken “letters” her niece and Rachel had been sending back and forth. She thought of listening to the tape first, before giving it to her daughter, but didn’t dwell on that notion, knowing she wouldn’t be able to live with herself for doing such a thing.

“Here’s something for you.” She placed the small package in Rachel’s hand.

“From Esther?”

“Must be. The postmark’s Ohio.”

Rachel’s face burst into a rainbow of a smile, and Susanna knew something was up. Then again, maybe not. Maybe the two women were just eager to correspond. It was just the idea of Esther reading all those Bible passages to Rachel that got her goat. Certain sections of Scripture were sanctioned by their bishop for use in personal reading and meditation. Seemed to her Rachel and Esther—Levi, too— had launched off on their own private exploration of God’s Word. Didn’t seem right, really. Too much like the Mennonites’ way, but she wasn’t about to consider that just now. She had enough problems of her own to take on the world, the flesh, and the devil.

Rachel decided to wait till later to listen to Esther’s tape recording. She couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed Mam might be too interested in what it had to say. She’d had enough of a run-in with her mother and felt a bit hemmed in. So she decided to wait for sleep to fall over the house before listening to Esther’s tape-letter.

She had an idea that it was time to talk with Annie about some personal things.
Other
things besides the fact that the child was too friendly with strangers; it seemed to her that Annie hadn’t made any big mistake by talking to the New York City writer. No, Philip Bradley came across as right trustworthy. ’Course, you could never be too sure of that, ’specially with outsiders.

What she needed to bring herself to do was tell Annie the things Rachel remembered about Jacob and Aaron. About their life together before the accident, because evidently there was really nothing else she could add to what Dat had already told his little granddaughter. It appeared to be no secret that Dat and Mam had taken it upon themselves to bring up the subject of the accident with Annie.

So tonight, just as soon as the supper dishes were washed and cleared away, she would sit down with her little daughter and share with her the recollections of the wonderful-gut days. Days marked with laughter and sunshine, sounds of woodworking comin’ from the barn, and smells of sawdust on the floor. Playful bickering between brother and sister, and the life-giving movement within Rachel’s womb.

Jah, the best days of her life . . . gone forever.

The drive to the Reading cemetery had been for the express purpose of locating Gabe Esh’s tombstone, and Philip had ignored it altogether, he realized as he drove the short distance back to the Orchard Guest House B&B. There he had stood just seven rows of markers away from the Amishman’s grave. Yet he’d turned on his heels to follow the interesting but dead-end lead to the florist shop.

Why he hadn’t taken time to stop and pay his respects at the cemetery was beyond him. Now as he thought about it, he concluded that he had made an error in judgment, though at the time, it seemed the right thing to do—chasing after the unknown person responsible for yearly outpourings of love.

He wouldn’t beat himself up over it, and he dismissed it as he pulled into the B&B driveway, noticing an abundance of cars.
The place is booked solid
, he thought, getting out of the car and wondering what he would do tomorrow to kill some time. Perhaps a bit of sightseeing was in order. No, what he really wanted to do was pitch hay with some Amish-men. Get a feel for more things Amish.

As for tonight, he would take a fresh look at his article before retiring. With the inclusion of Annie’s Christmas tablet and colored pencils, and the addition of a strong yet heartwarming wrap-up, he was actually finished with the piece. He would email it to Bob first thing in the morning.

Heading to his room, he greeted Susanna, who forced a smile and nodded.
What a difference
, he thought, remembering the uncommon cordiality at the outset, followed by the more frosty treatment just hours after his arrival.

He wouldn’t let it get the best of him. The thing he most wanted to do in the time remaining was to show continued kindness to Rachel—that is, if he should meet up with her again—and to be attentive to the little girl. He felt the child had been sorely cheated by fate. No father—at least no mention of one—a blind mother, and an overbearing grandmother. Annie’s grandfather seemed disconnected to the family, though he assumed well his patriarchal position. Philip couldn’t imagine the man going fishing with Annie— if Amish children even did such things with their elders. No, Benjamin Zook took more of a passive role with his exuberant grandchild, letting the women in Annie’s life have the say-so. Yet the child displayed a sense of security and happiness. It made no sense, but then, life was rather senseless most of the time, he conceded.

Rachel stayed put in her bedroom till after Annie was sound asleep. She got down on her hands and knees and rummaged around, trying to locate the electrical outlet near the bed, hoping she wouldn’t cause too much noise and alert Mam. She didn’t want Susanna to know she was still up, not this late, and she wanted complete privacy in listening to Esther’s tape.

As it turned out, there had been no time to talk heart to-heart with her little one as she’d planned. Mam had requested another round of Bible reading after supper. Dat had obliged, though it was apparent by the monotone that his heart wasn’t much in it. Mam’s doing, for sure.

Once Annie was bathed and dressed in her nightgown, it was too late to get such a serious talk started. Too late for a little girl to drift off to dreamland, thinking of the daddy she’d lost to death and the bright-eyed older brother no longer alive to tease or play with her.

So their talk would wait till tomorrow, after breakfast prob’ly. That’s what Rachel decided and felt better about it. She hoped and prayed the dear Lord would guide her words, help her say the things that truly should be said, according to Dat and Mam anyways.

Sliding the volume down all the way to the lowest setting, she pushed the tape into the recorder and began to listen for the soft voice of her cousin.

Dearest Rachel,

I couldn’t wait a minute longer for a letter from you, so I’m starting this tape now. It’s Monday night, September thirteenth, and the house is as quiet as it ever gets around here, I s’pose. I trust everything’s all right there with you, that you’re healthy and Annie’s well, too. Guess you’re busy during the fall tourist season, and we are, too, but in a different way. I’ve put up more applesauce than ever; pickles, corn, succotash, and more chowchow, too.

Levi’s been visiting with our preacher quite a lot this week. God continues to show us individually—and in the church body here—the importance of identifying generational sins and repenting of them. More and more, different ones in our church district are coming forward to confess patterns of family sins. What a joy to know that our prayers and testimony of faith are making a difference.

How’re Susanna and Benjamin? We’re praying for your parents more than ever, that the Lord will work in their hearts through His Word and through the nudging of the Holy Spirit, and that old Bishop Seth will wake up to the truths of the Gospel. We must pray that the Lord will plant a hunger in him for God’s Word, then he could encourage the People to search out the Scriptures. It’s not so farfetched, really. We’ve been hearing of a real stirring—jah, a breakout of revival—amongst Plain circles in many areas. So we can pray and know our prayers are more powerful than anything we might do or say.

It’s gettin’ awful late now. I hear Levi a-snorin’ so loud he’s gonna shake the bed frame loose. That actually happened once. You should’ve seen the look on his face when he woke up with the mattress sliding toward the floor! It was a right funny sight to behold.

James, Ada, Mary, and Elijah are growin’ like weeds—I can hardly keep them in clothes. I’m not complainin’, but it keeps a body goin’ in circles, trying to keep up with all the sewin’ and whatnot all.

Before I sign off, I want to leave you with a couple verses from Second Corinthians—chapter two, verses fourteen and fifteen. Here it is: “Now thanks be unto God, which always causeth us to triumph in Christ, and maketh manifest the savour of his knowledge by us in every place. For we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ, in them that are saved, and in them that perish.”

That part about us being a sweet savour or fragrance to God is so encouraging to me . . . and you, too, ain’t? I’ll be sendin’ you another preachin’ tape from our pastor’s sermon soon.

Well, I need my sleep for tomorrow’s work. Blessings to you, dear cousin. And just as soon as you can, please send me a tape back. Give your darling girl a big hug from Cousin Esther
.

Rachel turned off the recorder and hid the tape under her pillow. It was a wonderful-gut feeling to know that Esther, too, would prob’ly be listening to a tape tomorrow— the one Rachel had made for her two nights ago.

As she climbed into bed, she remembered the cutting, cruel thing Mam had said to her—about her special giftings being the reason Rachel was blind. And she wondered what Esther would think if she told her.

To soothe herself, she thought of the beautiful verse her cousin had quoted on the tape recording.
For we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ. . . .

The words comforted her as she plumped her pillow and lay down. The day had been as trying as any recently, and the Scripture from Esther was just what she needed to think on as she entrusted her sleep, and her dreams, to God.

Eighteen

O
n another day the predawn landscape might have seemed lackluster, but Philip found himself seized by the awakening countryside. He walked west to Gibbons Road, then south to Beechdale, toward an iron-gated entrance to Beechdale Farm, relishing the quietude, the peace of his surroundings. What he wouldn’t give to bottle up the tranquil setting and carry it back with him to New York.

Standing along the road in the midst of daybreak gold, he considered his life as one might at the conclusion of it. Where had he been heading these twenty-seven years? Would the path he was treading lead him out of his feature writer’s cubicle to a senior staff writer’s office? Was
that
what he wanted? What of the fading thrill of the chase—the journalistic hunt—the lonely hours and days of writing one assigned article, followed by yet another? How could such a life be Frost’s road “less traveled by” that truly “made all the difference”?

The sun inched past the horizon, casting lengthy shadows of the fence palings across the road. He longed for a stroll down one of the wagon paths he’d spied earlier, especially one bordered by identical cornfields on either side. Not willing to trespass, he continued walking south on Beechdale Road, toward Highway 340 and the village shops of Bird-in-Hand. No real direction to his journey. No viable reason to be out and roaming this early, except that he had awakened hours before his usual “rise and shine.” Not having had adequate exercise in the past days, he’d slipped out of the house before the slightest indication of life was in evidence, meaning Susanna Zook had not made her presence known at the hour of his departure.