The Preacher's Daughter (25 page)

Louisa rolled her eyes and moved away.
They must think Annie and I can't hear them with our bonnets on! How rude!

There was a sudden flash, and Louisa turned and came face-to-face with one of the modern tourists, now wielding a camera.

‘‘Smile!'' the woman said, with one eye squinting.

Louisa put her hand in front of the lens. ‘‘Excuse me. What you're doing is impolite,'' she spouted, glancing now at Annie, who looked nearly as stunned as the tourists.

‘‘But you're both so
cute,
'' the too-blond woman cooed.

‘‘Your camera's not welcome here,'' Louisa said, stepping between Annie and the tourist like a shield. She stared at this pushy, insensitive person, the first bejeweled, made-up woman she had seen since coming to visit.
Was I ever that rude?
she wondered.
I hope not!

She took a deep breath, suppressing the urge to speak up again.

Annie marched off, keeping her face from view. And Louisa followed suit, mimicking her Plain friend, quite proud to join ranks with Annie.

During afternoon milking, Annie mentioned to her father that Louisa had seen him out quite late one night, carrying a shovel. ‘‘I told her she must've dreamt it, Daed.''

But it was peculiar how he did not return her smile. His eyes took on a serious, even stern expression. ‘‘No need talking 'bout this,'' he said flatly.

‘‘Then I guess Louisa wasn't dreamin' after all.''

‘‘Ach, Annie . . . church business.''

She knew by that she best hush up. Because whatever it was, Daed had no intention of revealing it to her. And now she was ever so curious.

Chapter 25

T
oward the end of the fourth week of Louisa's visit, an important-looking letter arrived in the mail. Glancing at it, Annie noticed the inscribed address for the law offices of Louisa's father.

Dashing across the road, she found Louisa pitching hay to the mules with Luke and Yonie. ‘‘Mail call!'' she announced, holding out the elongated envelope.

Taking a moment to study the envelope, Louisa promptly folded it in half and stuffed it into her dress pocket. ‘‘This can wait,'' she said softly, shrugging a bit.

But after supper, Annie sat on the bed with Louisa in their shared room in the Dawdi Haus. A small but cheery sitting room separated their bedroom from Dawdi and Mammi Zooks'.

‘‘You're upset,'' she said, aware of Louisa's gloom. ‘‘Anything I can do for you?''

Louisa held the letter in her hands, staring at it, a wistful frown on her face. ‘‘My father wants me to come home—especially since I stayed here through Thanksgiving. They're thinking of having a family reunion, I guess you could call it, before Christmas. A get-together of sorts to take the place of my canceled wedding.''

‘‘Did he say
that
?''

‘‘No, but it's implied, trust me. If I return, they'll fly the extended family out. If not, they'll skip it. So the burden rests on me.''

Annie felt sad, knowing how terribly she would miss Louisa, who had become her dearest sister-friend. ‘‘Must you go already?''

Louisa returned the letter to the envelope. ‘‘Well, I doubt my parents would appreciate my Amish dress and apron. . . .''

This made Annie smile. ‘‘Then why not stay for Christmas?''

‘‘You know, Annie, I have to say for as out of place as I felt when I first arrived, I can't seem to get enough of your Paradise.''

Annie was heartened at this. ‘‘Have you considered stayin' for longer . . . like a full year? What would ya say to that?''

‘‘I think I do need more time here. . . .'' Louisa looked intently, even longingly, out the window. Her head covering fit her face and hairline quite perfectly.

‘‘Then it's settled. You're stayin'.''

Louisa's eyes brightened again. ‘‘If I can make all the arrangements— and if your parents consent to it—I'll take you up on your suggestion.''

‘‘Oh, this is such good news!''

‘‘Let's not count our chickens before they're hatched,'' Louisa said, which got Annie laughing. ‘‘I'll have to sublease my place, and I need to touch base with each of my students. And to keep painting at Julia's and selling my art, too, if possible. I'm not a freeloader.''

Annie wondered why Louisa hadn't mentioned contacting her parents. ‘‘I'll cross my fingers and hope real hard that everything falls into place.'' Blissful at the thought of Louisa staying on, Annie also knew this might well be her last year in her parents' house. She suspected the brethren of having spoken in private on the knotty problem of her hedging about church membership. If she didn't sign up for baptismal classes by next spring, there would be more to deal with than a multitude of raised eyebrows.

Leaning her head back on the bed, Annie stared at the ceiling. Then, sighing, she looked over at Louisa. ‘‘You goin' to answer your father's letter?''

‘‘When I know for sure what I'm doing,'' Louisa said quietly. ‘‘Meanwhile, I think I might like to talk to your cousin sometime.''

‘‘ 'Bout staying put here?''

‘‘No, other things. Julia seems like a person who's actually interested in reading the Bible. That blows me away, because it's such a dry sort of read, from what I remember. But your cousin's got her nose in it a lot.'' Louisa paused for a moment, then continued. ‘‘There's just so much about God that I don't get. Ever feel that way?''

Annie definitely understood. ‘‘Jah, more than ever.''

Annie was sitting toward the back of the kitchen, closest to the sunroom at Deacon Byler's house, during the common meal. She was mulling over the sermon her father had given. Often she contemplated the way he told the story, as if attempting to communicate the Old Testament accounts in such a way as to draw in the young people more fully. And he'd certainly done that today. Sometimes she felt as if she were seeing a side to her father she rarely saw, except on Preaching days, and she savored the feeling.

She was so deep in thought she literally jumped when Esther came over and tapped her on the shoulder. ‘‘When you're through, can we go walkin'?''

‘‘Why sure.'' Annie pushed her dessert aside. ‘‘Let's go right now.''

‘‘No . . . no, finish your pie.'' Esther's face was drawn and she looked to be sleep deprived, the way she often looked lately.

‘‘I'll tell you what . . . I can easily take it along.'' Annie scooped up the pumpkin pie and placed it on a napkin.

‘‘Will Louisa be all right?'' asked Esther.

A quick glance up the table and Annie could see Louisa well occupied with Mamm and several of Annie's aunts. ‘‘Looks like she's busy talkin' for now.''

They headed out the back door and down a stony walkway. Annie asked which way she wanted to go, pointing out the narrow farm road as well as the paved but little-traveled road out front.

‘‘Back road's best, I think.''

By this Annie knew Esther had something personal on her mind. ‘‘I'm glad you asked me to come walking. You feelin' all right?''

Esther pulled a hankie from her pocket. ‘‘Oh, Annie, I've wanted to talk to you in the worst way. . . .'' Her voice quavered. ‘‘Things have gone from bad to worse 'tween Zeke and me.''

Annie didn't know what to say, having only suspected something amiss . . . never knowing what, at least not from Esther directly. There had been some things dropped now and then from Annie's mother to Sarah Mae, but nothing substantial. ‘‘I'm so sorry, Esther. How can I help?''

Esther stopped beneath a tree, gathering her shawl about her. ‘‘My wee babe's comin' soon, but something keeps tellin' me to run away. I even have dreams 'bout taking Laura and the boys and leaving Zeke.''

Annie was aghast. ‘‘You'd do that?''

Esther hung her head. ‘‘Some days I want to disappear just like Zeke's little brother did back when. Other times, when Zeke's right kind, even thoughtful, 'specially toward the children, I wonder what the world I'm thinkin'.'' She reached for Annie's hand. ‘‘I believe I've come to my wit's end. Is it just me, or am I truly losin' my mind? Are things so terrible wrong at my house?''

Annie inhaled deeply, gripping poor Esther's hand. ‘‘Maybe you'd better tell me what you mean.''

Esther's lower lip trembled. ‘‘Well, to start with, I need to know something.'' She took a great deep breath. ‘‘Does your father ever lay a hand on your mamma in rebuke?''

‘‘Never in anger, no. But then Mamm respects and obeys him, no question 'bout that.''

‘‘Are you sayin' it's all right for a man to strike his wife if she doesn't?''

Annie thought on that. ‘‘Well, we both know there are plenty of men who demand submission . . . and they use the Ordnung to back that up.'' She was thinking of her grandfather Zook and some of his brothers, much too harsh in some ways. There were rumors, too, that Deacon Byler and some of his married boys were awful hard on their women, including the younger girls. ‘‘Usually, the men say it's the woman's fault. . . .''

‘‘But I need answers, 'cause I feel like I'm walkin' in the dark.'' Esther let go of Annie's hand, moving slowly now.

‘‘There aren't easy solutions, I don't think. But if you're ever in danger, you know where you and the children can come for safety.'' Annie meant this with all of her heart.

Esther shook her head. ‘‘I could never take you up on that. I doubt Preacher Zook would tolerate such a thing. He'd say I was diggin' in my heels, not yielding to my husband.'' She grabbed hold of her shawl again. ‘‘Truth is, one of these times, you just might not see me round here anymore, Annie.''

‘‘Honestly, you'd up and leave?''

‘‘I'd find myself some peace, that's all. It's not like I
want
to go away. . . .''

‘‘So it's your husband you'd run from, not the Lord God?''

Esther blew her nose as they continued walking. ‘‘Don't you see? I feel I may be in danger . . . and the children, too.'' She put her hands on her protruding stomach. ‘‘With the next baby coming, well . . . I just don't think it's a good idea to stay put.''

Annie was at a loss to know what to say. ‘‘Are you afraid of Zeke?''

‘‘Jah, awful much.'' Esther sniffled and began to cry. ‘‘He's impossible to understand, truly. I don't know what he's capable of doin'.'' She rambled a bit, telling tidbits about the ups and downs of her husband's moods.

Then her voice grew stronger. ‘‘I found the oddest thing here lately, while doing a bit of sorting. It was a small burlap bag . . . with dozens of peach pits inside. They looked to have been washed clean and set out in the sun to dry and bleach a bit.''

‘‘Sounds like Zeke's still grieving his brother's disappearance.'' ‘‘Well, I've heard him whimpering in his sleep the past month . . . more than ever before.''

Annie's heart went out to both Esther and Zeke. ‘‘Too bad there isn't some way for one of the brethren to talk with him . . . to let him pour out the bitterness somehow.''

‘‘Funny you say that, 'cause Bishop Andy came over one evening some weeks back. He and Zeke hurried out to the barn. The next day, Zeke was ever so kindhearted toward our little boys while Laura was at school. But then, later that night, he turned ugly again.''

‘‘Does he drink, do you know?''

‘‘I've smelt it on his breath some.''

Annie pondered what to do. ‘‘Would you want me to say something to my mother? In confidence, of course.''

Esther's eyes flashed disdain. ‘‘Well, why would you do that?''

‘‘Only that she would talk to Daed . . . see if something can be done.''

Turning, Esther looked her square in the eye. ‘‘If I wanted to tell a preacher, do ya think I'd be whisperin' all this to
you
?''

Annie felt terrible. She'd said the wrong thing, she knew . . . hurt her friend's feelings. ‘‘Ach, I'm awful sorry. I just want to help if I can.''

‘‘I daresay you must want to tell it around, that's what.''

‘‘No, now listen, Esther. You have my word. I'll keep your secret . . . but is that the right thing? For you and your coming child? For Laura and Zach and little John? Is it?''

‘‘I should've kept quiet, looks to me like,'' Esther said softly.

Annie felt empathy, as well as a good measure of anger at being misjudged. ‘‘Well, I'm warning you now, if I ever see you with a black eye or other bruises, I'll be goin' straight to my father. Hear?''

Esther shook her head, tearstains on her face.

‘‘Look,'' Annie challenged, ‘‘do you believe the Lord God gave us women the ability to think or not?''

‘‘Maybe so. . . .''

‘‘I say don't let any man trample you into the ground. Who cares how some of the menfolk treat their wives and daughters, or how our great-grandfathers did back when. It's time Zeke started showing you and your children the kindness and love you deserve, Essie!'' She couldn't believe she'd just spoken Esther's old nickname.

Letting out a little gasp, Esther turned away. She didn't even bother to say good-bye, just trudged back toward the barnyard on the rutted dirt path, the fringe of her black wool shawl bouncing as she went.

Well!
Annie crossed her arms and took several slow, deep breaths lest she holler one final remark and cause even more strife in poor Esther.
Maybe it's good I'm not getting married anytime soon. Even if I ever meet a man who measures up to Rudy
.