The Shunning (3 page)

Wear your mamma’s clothing, get your mamma’s life
.

Dan Fisher had said that once, after I’d confessed my silly whim.

“You know, it’s just for fun,” I’d insisted, surprised at what he’d said about my mamma’s life—as if there were something wrong with it. I didn’t ask him about it, though. Just let it be.

Dan must not have realized it, but what I’d meant to say was: What would it be like to wear “English” clothes—not Mamma’s or another Plain woman’s clothes, but fancy, modern clothes?

I put the wrinkled wedding dress away and reached for the satin baby garment. Glancing down, I saw a name hand stitched into the back facing.

Katherine Mayfield
.

Instantly, I felt envy stir up in me toward this baby, this Katherine, whoever she was. What was
her
dress doing in
our
attic?

Thou shalt not covet
.

I could hear the words from Dat’s lips. He’d drilled them into me and many others like them from my childhood on. Words like, “If you don’t kindle a little fire to begin with, you’ll never have to worry about snuffin’ out a big one.”

My father was like that. Always chiding me about one thing or another growing up. But now . . . now that I was a grown woman, my wicked ways were still very much alive. It seemed I’d never measure up, at least not for Dat. Probably not for God, either.

A half hour later, my brothers found me sobbing beside the attic trunk, still clutching the little rose-colored gown. And from that moment on, nothing was ever the same for me. Not for a single one of us here in Hickory Hollow.

One

N
ovember days, being what they were in southeastern Pennsylvania, held an icy grip all their own. The wind, keen and cold, whipped at Rebecca Lapp’s black wool shawl. Her long apron was heavy with logs for the okstove as she headed up the snowy back steps of the stone farmhouse.

The sprawling house had been built in 1840 by her husband’s ancestor, Joseph Lapp, and his stonemason friend. Now, over a century and a half later, the house was little changed. It stood—stately and tall—untouched by the outside world and its gadgets and gimmickry. Here, things went on as they always had—slow and tranquil— pacing out the days like an Amish
Grossmutter
, with serenity and grace.

Some time after, as was Amish custom, an addition called the
Grossdawdi Haus
—a grandfather house for aging relatives—had been built onto the east side.

The sky had deepened to purple as the sun prepared to slip down out of the sky, and Rebecca made her way into the warm kitchen to slide the chopped wood into the grate on top of her large black-metal stove. That done, she removed her full-length shawl and hung it over one of the wooden pegs in the utility room, just inside the back door.

Potatoes, now at a rolling boil, teased the sides of the black kettle as she tested them with a fork—done to perfection. Turning, she noticed the table still unset and craned her neck toward the front room. “Katie, supper!” she called to her daughter.

Then with the expertise of one who had cooked and baked an array of farm produce for as long as she could remember, Rebecca reached for a potholder and leaned down to inspect the home-cured ham in the oven. “Jah, gut,” she whispered, smiling in approval as she breathed in its sweet aroma.

Minutes later, as though on cue, Eli, Benjamin, and their father came inside, removed their wide-brimmed, black felt hats, heavy sack coats, and work boots, and headed for the polished black woodstove near the center of the enormous kitchen.

“Startin’ to sleet out,” Samuel said, rubbing his hands together. He pulled a chair up close to the old range and stuck out his stockinged feet, warming them.

“We’re in for a cold snap, all right,” Rebecca replied, glancing at the long sawbuck table adorned with a simple green-checkered oilcloth. “Katie-e-e!” she called again.

When there was still no answer, concern creased Rebecca’s brow. Her worried expression must have baffled Samuel Lapp, for he spoke right up. “
Ach
, what’s-a-matter? Do ya think daughter’s ill?”

Rebecca gazed at the gas lamp hanging over the table and wondered what could be keeping Katie. It wasn’t like her to be late.

From his spot near the warm stove, Samuel began to call, “Katie, supper! Come now, don’t delay!”

When their daughter did not come bounding down the steps at his summons, he glowered. Rebecca felt her cheeks grow pale.

Apparently Eli noticed, too. “Mam?”

She stood there, stock still, as though waiting for an answer to drop from heaven. “Where could Katie be?” she managed at last, gripping the platter of steaming sliced ham with both hands.

Samuel shrugged, pulling on his bushy beard. “Wasn’t she here in the house?”

Quickly Rebecca turned, fixing her sons with an inquiring stare. “You boys seen her?”

“Don’t know that I seen her most the afternoon,” Eli spoke up.

“Benjamin? When did
you
see your sister last?”

He ran his fingers through a shock of thick blond hair. “I don’t—”

“Well, did you see her or not?” Rebecca demanded, almost immediately regretting the sharp tone she’d taken with her youngest son.

Samuel went to the sink and turned on the spigot, facing the window as the water rushed over his red, callused hands. “Eli and Benjamin were out shreddin’ cornstalks with me,” he explained over his shoulder. “No need to be pointing fingers just yet.”

His words stung, but Rebecca clamped her jaw shut. A submissive wife was to fear the Lord and respect her husband, which meant letting Samuel have the last word. She turned slowly, placing the platter of meat on the stovetop.

Still in his stocking feet, Samuel strode into the living room and called up the steps. “Katie . . . supper!”

It was at that moment that Benjamin appeared to remember. “Oh, she might still be in the attic. I helped her up there a while back.”

Rebecca’s heart gave a great leap.
The attic?

“What’s she want up there?” Samuel mumbled, obviously annoyed at the delay, and marched back into the kitchen.

“To have a look at Mam’s wedding dress, I guess.”

Rebecca studied her son. “Well, go on up and fetch her down, will you?” she asked, careful not to betray her growing desperation.

Following Eli, who steadied the oil lantern, Benjamin scrambled up the stairs, his hollow stomach growling as he went.

“Whatcha think’s wrong?” Eli asked as they came to the landing.

Benjamin glanced up at his brother on the rung above him. “With Katie?”

“No.” Eli snorted. “With Mamma.”

Benjamin had a pretty good notion. “Katie’s gettin’ married next week—Mam’s losin’ her only daughter. That’s all there is to it.”

“Jah.” It was pretty clear that Eli wasn’t exactly certain what Ben meant. But they both knew one thing for sure: Getting married was a way of life in Hickory Hollow. You found a nice honest girl among the People and got yourself hitched up. Mam ought to be mighty happy about Bishop John; Katie, too—with the widower coming to her rescue, so to speak. At twenty-two, an Amish girl—no matter how headstrong and feisty—wouldn’t be smart to be too picky. His sister had scared more than one boy away on that basis alone.

Eli continued his climb up the attic ladder but stopped halfway.

“Keep on going,” Ben muttered, thinking about the tender, juicy ham downstairs. “Time’s a-wastin’.”

Eli put out his hand, shushing him. “Wait . . . listen.”

“What is it?” Ben cocked his head.

“Hear that?”

Ben strained his ears, staring hard at the attic door above them. “Well, I’ll be . . . sounds like Katie’s cryin’ up there.”

Without warning, he charged past Eli—crawled right over the top of him and up the ladder—nearly knocking the lantern out of his brother’s hand.

Downstairs, while Samuel read the public auction notices in
Die
Botschaft
, Rebecca pulled out the drawer nearest the sink and gathered up five sets of utensils—one for each of the Lapp family members who would be present around her table this night.

Jah, this was a daughter’s chore, but it didn’t much matter who placed the dishes on the old table. Katie had been busy, after all, caught up with wedding plans.

Of all things, her daughter—ending up with Bishop Beiler and his young brood. The Lord God sure had a way of looking out for His own. And after what happened to Katie’s first love—poor Daniel Fisher, who’d gotten himself drowned in that sailing accident. Yes, Rebecca felt mighty blessed the way things were turning out.

She sat down, recalling the first time Katie’s pudgy little hands had set this table. The memory was soothing—a vision of days long past.

Katie’s first table setting had been a surprise of sorts. At only three and a half, the little girl was mighty pleased with herself, knowing she’d be winning her mamma’s approval. Eventually, though, the years would show that when it came down to it, what people thought of her had little to do with what made Katie Lapp tick.

Rebecca’s sweet reminiscence served to push back the secret fear, push it deep into the inner sanctuary of her mind. That place where she’d learned to carry it, sequestered from all conscious thought.

The secret
.

She sighed, trying not to think of the consequences of its discovery.

Katie . . . in the attic? The thought sent a shiver tingling down her spine. Rebecca rose and touched her kapp, letting her hand trail along the narrow white ties as she went to the back door and stood inside the utility room.

Lord God of heaven, forgive me
. She’d prayed the words silently each and every day for the past twenty-two years, wondering if God had heard. Maybe, observing her dedication and contrite heart, He had forgiven her. But if so, what was God doing now? What was He allowing to happen?

Rebecca’s gaze swept the wide yard and beyond, toward the barn. Layers of sleet covered the sloping bank of earth that led to the two-story haymow. The ice storm had brought fierce wind, its shrill voice whistling ominously in her ears. She felt it pound against the door like an intruder and was grateful for the reliable woodstove in the center of the kitchen, warming the spacious room.

Rebecca turned away from the cold window and glanced at the day clock, wishing Katie would hurry and come. Supper was getting cold.

Upstairs, a blast of arctic air greeted Benjamin as he shoved open the hatchlike attic door. With little effort, he pulled himself up the ladder and into the storage room. There he was met by a strange sight. Draped halfway over a rectangular trunk, his sister sat crumpled in a heap on the cold floor, her head buried in her arms.

The trunk lid was down now, and Benjamin saw no sign of his Mam’s wedding dress. But there was an unusual-looking piece of fabric— he couldn’t quite make out what—in his sister’s hand. Was it a scrap for a quilt? No, from where he stood, it seemed almost shiny— too fussy for the bed coverings Katie often made with Mary Stoltzfus and their many girl cousins and friends down Hickory Lane.

Unsure as to what to do, he stood there watching as Katie whimpered within arms’ reach. As far as he could remember, he’d never touched his sister except when they’d played together as youngsters. He wasn’t sure he ought to now. Besides—all bent over that way—she wasn’t looking at him, hadn’t seen him come up. She’d probably jump right out of her skin if he touched her.

While Benjamin was still wondering what to do, Eli peeked over the opening in the floor, his blue eyes wide. “Psst, Ben,” he whispered. “What’s-a-matter with her?”

About that time, Katie began to stir. Wiping her tear-streaked face with her long apron, she seemed oblivious for a moment. Then she turned toward them, and in the lantern’s glow, Ben could tell that she was trembling. “Mam’s waitin’ supper,” he said, eyeing her carefully.

Katie leaned on the trunk, pushing herself to a standing position, and Ben put out a hand to help her. “It’s freezin’ cold up here,” he said. “Why’dja stay so long?”

Katie ignored his outstretched hand along with his question and adjusted her kapp. Then slowly, she straightened until she stood tall and erect, her jawline rigid. “I’m coming down, so scram, both of you!”

Ben and Eli did as they were told and scuffled down the ladder— Ben, still thinking about Katie’s tears. He’d heard about women getting all weepy-eyed before a wedding. His oldest brother, Elam, had said something like that just last year, several days before he and his bride tied the knot.

He scratched his head, puzzled.
Tears must mean Katie’ll be missin’
us come next week
, he decided. He broke into a grin. Wouldn’t do to let on to Katie what he was thinking, though. The way she was acting, there was no telling what she’d say. Or do.

Two