The Shunning (32 page)
————
Annie was tending to baby Daniel on a frigid January morning when there was a knock at the front door. She tucked the baby into his cradle in the warm kitchen and hurried to the front room to open the door.
A round-faced postman was standing on the porch. “I have a letter here for Annie Lapp,” he said, reading the name off the envelope marked Priority Mail.
“
I’m
Annie Lapp,” she said hesitantly, wondering who on earth would pay so much money for a piece of mail—and why they felt they needed to send it so fast.
“Here you are, ma’am.” He handed her the envelope. “Have a good day.”
She closed the door against the biting wind and sat down in the living room, turning her attention to the large, cardboard envelope. A small arrow pointed to a perforated strip, and when she pulled on it, she was surprised at how easily it opened.
Before reaching inside, she turned the envelope over and searched for a return address, but there was none. “That’s odd,” she said aloud.
The idea that it might be a belated New Year’s greeting from Katie excited her, and quickly she pulled out the smaller envelope inside, hoping she was right. Dropping the outer covering, Annie read her name on the front of the small envelope. This didn’t look like Katie’s handwriting, but then again, she could be wrong; after all, she hadn’t had reason to see her sister-in-law’s handwriting all that often. But this . . . this writing seemed strangely familiar. Where had she seen it before?
She opened the envelope and pulled out a letter written on lined paper, much like the paper she’d learned to write on at the one-room Amish school, many years ago.
Curious, she began to read:
My dear Annie,
For several years now, I have wanted to contact you secretly. I
trust this letter will not startle you unduly. If you are not sitting
down, maybe you should be, because, you see, I, your brother Daniel,
am alive
.
Annie leaped out of her chair, trembling, still holding the letter. “Ach, how can this be?” She paced frantically, going to stand in front of the window, staring out but seeing nothing, then sat down again to read the next line.
Indeed, there was an accident at sea, but I did not drown on
my nineteenth birthday, as you may have believed all these years
.
She rushed into the kitchen, past the cradle holding her sleeping son, and out the kitchen door to find her husband. “Elam! Come quick!”
When she did not find him in the barn, she hurried to the milk house. “Elam, where are you?”
She felt her heart thumping hard and her breath coming in short, panicky gasps. When her husband was nowhere to be found, she stood there in the barnyard, shivering from the cold and her inner confusion, reading the letter from her long-deceased brother.
Now, however, I wish to come to Hickory Hollow for a visit. I
must do the Christian thing and make amends, starting with
Father, because it is he who I have most sorely wronged.
If it is not too presumptuous, I will contact you again by mail
in a few days, and later, if you agree, I want to speak with you—
face-to-face—about approaching our father with this news.
And Katie Lapp. I am wondering how she is, and hoping that
she has not already married, although I cannot imagine that she
has waited for a dead man all these years.
If I am to be allowed to come to the Hollow, it is Katie I want
to see first of all. . . .
Annie’s head was swimming with her brother’s brief explanation. So much had been left unsaid. Still, her heart was breaking—for Katie. Poor, dear girl. Even if someone wanted to risk being shunned to tell her about this unexpected turn of events—even so, Katie had already left for New York.
She shook her head mournfully as she walked toward the house. Feelings of anticipation—the possibility of a reunion with her darling brother—stirred within.
When her little one began to squirm and fuss, she picked him up and walked around the kitchen. Thoughtfully, she began to tell him the story of a handsome uncle who had been dead and now was alive, and a stubborn aunt who was as good as dead because of the shunning— and how they had loved each other.
She put her lips to the top of his sweet head and kissed the warm, pulsing soft spot. Such a frightening thing to ponder—this sad love story—its end so unlike its simple beginning.
“Some things just ain’t very simple, really,” she heard herself saying. “Some things just ain’t.”
She turned toward the kitchen window, facing west. And holding baby Daniel close, she looked out over the wide stretch of pastureland that bordered the woods. The sun had slipped below the horizon, leaving long, trailing tendrils of red in the sky—like a woman’s hair floating out over the trees, free and unrestrained.
H
ow swiftly my life has changed, though I ’spect things in the Hollow plod along, same as always. Tongues are forever wagging these days, but all I
really
know is hearsay.
Talk is cheap, but rumor has it that Mam has stopped her storytelling. My heart is awful pained over what she must surely be going through. Still, I don’t know how I could’ve stayed on, not with the Meinding and all. I’d have become a yoke around my family’s neck. Eventually, the People would’ve ousted me anyway. Bidding a sorrowful farewell was my only hope.
They say Mary Stoltzfus’s uncle—her father’s youngest brother— is interested in moving out to Indiana somewhere. Most likely to look for available farmland. I only hope my leaving hasn’t stirred up unrest among the People.
One thing is for sure and for certain. I am free now. No more Ordnung hanging over my head. No more bishop telling me how to dress, how to pin up my bun, how
not
to sing or hum.
But freedom’s come with a terrible high price tag—leaving my family and turning my back on the only life I’ve ever known. Honestly, sometimes I have to reassure myself, and it’s at those times that I stop and pray:
O God, help me to be of good courage
.
Still, I remember the shunning, and if the truth be known, I realize it’s a grievous blessing—a springboard to freedom. Freedom to experience what the dear Wise Woman could only begin to imagine. Freedom to search, and hopefully, find my roots.
Yet more than any of that, I’ve been cut loose to discover who I truly am . . . who I was meant to be. And for the part of me that is Katherine Mayfield, it is a wonderful-good thing.
I
t is a myth that writers work alone. In the matter of this particular book, I wish to thank the following people:
The Lancaster County Historical Society, The Mennonite Information Center, The Lancaster Public Library, and The People’s Place; Fay Landis, John and Ada Reba Bachman, Kathy Torley, and Dorothy Brosey.
During the course of my research, as well as my growing-up years in Lancaster County, I have been blessed with Amish friends and contacts, most of whom choose to remain anonymous. A heart-felt
Denki!
for your warm hospitality and many kindnesses.
Deepest gratitude to Anne Severance, my editor and friend, who graced these pages with her expertise and enthusiasm.
Special thanks to Carol Johnson and Barbara Lilland, who believed in this story from its inception, and to the entire BHP editorial and marketing staff.
For ongoing encouragement, I am grateful to Judy Angle, Barbara Birch, Bob and Carole Billingsley, Bob and Aleta Hirschberg, and Herb and Jane Jones.
I forever appreciate my husband’s keen interest in my work, and his willingness to talk out plot angles and ideas with me. Thank you, Dave . . . for always being there.
More Beloved Amish
Fiction From Beverly Lewis
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