The Shunning (8 page)

She stopped humming, considering her options. If she refused to confess privately, then a
sitting
confession would be required. She must wait until after the next preaching service and remain seated in the midst of the members-only meeting. There, just before the shared meal, she would have to declare—in front of them all—that she had sinned.

Perhaps, she mused as Molasses picked up his pace nearing home, in order to come clean before God and the church, she should admit that she’d sinned repeatedly through the years—even after her father had caught her strumming the guitar in the haymow as a teenager and forbidden her to play. Still, she wasn’t certain she’d tell the part about the repeated transgressions. It was bad enough—her humming forbidden songs on the way home from a quilting bee held in her honor, where the women were surely making hers and the bishop’s wedding quilt.

Katie sighed, her breath hanging in the frosty air. Either way, she would be expected to say that she was turning her back on her sin, and mean it with all her heart. But she would keep Dan out of it. No need to place blame on someone whose body lay cold in a watery grave. Of that she was certain.

The confessing, private or otherwise, would be hers and hers alone. She would have to ask the deacon or Preacher Yoder to forgive her. Either that or go before the entire church membership. Because if she didn’t confess on her own, surely Dat would go to Bishop John himself and report her disobedience.

On the day of her baptism years before, Katie had agreed to this process of correction by the church. A time-honored ritual, it was the way things were done. Repentance must be a public affair. If she delayed the confession, then in order to be reclaimed, the bishop would come to her with another witness—possibly Preacher or one of the deacons. Matthew’s gospel made the procedure very clear: “‘Take with thee one or two more, that in the mouth of two or three witnesses every word may be established.”’

Thinking of John being told, her face grew warm with embarrassment. She didn’t want her future husband, bishop or not, caught in the middle. A decision would have to be reached on her own. She must give up her musical inclination and abandon her guitar, now hidden deep in the hayloft. She must give it all up, forsake the love-link between herself and Dan. Forever.

The dull clumping sound of the horse’s hooves on the snow-packed road lulled Katie into a feeling of serenity despite the turmoil within. She could trust the old ways. Repenting would make things right. Somehow—though it galled her to think of it—she would have to do it. For her future standing with the People; for Bishop John’s sake and his dear children, if for no other reason.

She leaned back against the hard leather buggy seat and sighed. If she’d known what to say to God, she would’ve said it then—spoken it right out into the icy air the way her mother’s Mennonite cousins often did at family get-togethers. Though the social times were few and far between, Peter and Lydia Miller were the friendliest, nicest people anywhere. And they seemed comfortable talking to the Lord, during the table blessing or anytime. On the way home from such a gathering, Dat was always quick to point out to Katie and the boys how glib the Millers’ approach to the Almighty seemed to be. Mam agreed.

Another gray buggy was approaching in the left lane, heading in the opposite direction, and she saw that it was Mattie Beiler’s oldest granddaughter. Sarah was probably on her way to the quilting. They exchanged a wave and a smile.

Katie rode in silence for a while, then away in the distance, she heard her name. “Katie! Katie Lapp . . . is that you?”

Little Jacob Beiler had been playing with a rope and wagon by the side of the road, pretending to be the horse, it appeared. His deep-set, innocent blue eyes, framed by wheat-colored bangs peeking out from under his black hat, looked up expectantly as he ran and stood in the middle of the road, waving her down.

Here comes my new mamma!
Jacob thought with delight.
Can’t
hardly wait ’til she comes to stay all the time. Hope she cooks good
.

Katie Lapp always sat up tall and straight in the carriage, holding the reins almost the way his own
Daed
did, her bright eyes shining. But she was different from all the other Plain women, no getting around it. Maybe it was her hair. It was sorta red-like. . . .

Jacob thought about it for a moment. Katie’s parents had no such hair. And her brothers were blond headed—
like me
.

She was real pretty, too, and full of fun. And she hummed songs. He knew she did, because he’d heard her humming as she came up the lane—something he’d never heard his own mamma do. But then, he’d been just a baby when she died. Still, he was sure his Mam had never, ever done any singing except at preaching service. None of the other women he knew hummed or sang tunes. Katie was the first. He couldn’t wait for her to be his real, come-to-live-with-him mamma. . . .

Katie slowed Molasses to a full stop. “Well, hullo there, Jacob. Are you needing a ride home?”

The four-year-old hopped into the carriage, hoisting his long rope and little wagon onto the floor. “Jah. Pa’ll wonder what’s become of me.” He clapped his muffled hands together snug inside his gray woolen mittens and hugged himself against his heavy sack coat.

Katie wondered if his mother had made the mittens before she died. Or if they were hand-me-downs. With four older siblings, the latter was probably the case.

She covered his legs with her heavy lap robe, picked up the reins and gave them a plucky snap. “It’s mighty cold for someone your size to be out playing, ain’t it?”

“Nah. Daed says I’m tougher’n most boys my age.” His eyes sparkled as he spoke.

“I think he’s probably right.” She glanced down at the bundle of wiggles seated next to her.

“Daed’s ’sposed to be right.” A touch of healthy pride rang in his voice. “God makes bishops that-a-way, ya know.”

Katie smiled. She wondered how it would be to hear John’s youngest child chatter every day over little-boy things. Gladly, she’d listen to his babbling. Gladly . . . except . . .

Giving her love to Jacob and his brothers and sisters would mean giving up something besides her music. Last week, when she and John had gone into Lancaster to apply for their marriage license, she had scarcely been able to restrain herself from gawking at the colorful clothes the “English” women were wearing. Could she give up her seemingly endless desire to wonder, to dream, to imagine “what if”?

What if one day she dared to wear a pink or yellow dress; let her hair hang down her back in curls or pulled into beautiful braids? How would it feel? Would it change who she was inside?

Several months ago she’d discussed the topic discreetly with Mary, and her friend had said that it wasn’t only the wearing of plain clothes that made them Amish, it was who they were. “It’s what we believe,” she’d stated with conviction. “We’ve been taught to ‘make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace.’ You know without me telling you what that means.”

Katie knew. Her best friend was, of course, referring to the Scripture in Ephesians that taught uniformity of dress, transportation, and dwellings.

“What about the Englishers—what about
them
?” Katie had persisted.

Mary had become exasperated with her. “They don’t know beans, that’s what. They—those worldly moderns—keep on changing and changing their clothes and themselves ’til they don’t know which end’s up. They don’t know who they are or whatnot all!”

Katie had listened, wincing inwardly at Mary’s stern reminder. “Besides, it’s much too late now to be questioning. You already took the vow for life.” She’d paused for breath, pinning Katie with an unrelenting gaze. “Better never to take the vow . . . than to take it and break it.”

Disobedience to the Ordnung brought dire consequences, Katie was well aware. The Ban and
Meinding
were a frightful, fearful part of the way things were—
das Alt Gebrauch
, the Old Way.

Without warning, Jacob jumped up in the buggy. “Oh, look, there’s Daed!” He pointed toward a large, two-story white clapboard house.

Katie jerked her thoughts from their ramblings. How much of Jacob’s boyish jabber had she missed? In her preoccupation, she’d nearly ridden right past the Beiler house!

Her guilt made her almost shy as she returned John’s exuberant greeting from the high porch that spanned the entire front of the house. “Gut morning to ya, Katie!”

Katie reined Molasses in to the barnyard, where he halted on the frozen ridges made by the bishop’s buggy wheels. As was the Old Order custom, John earned an income for his family from the land and the smithy, while serving God and community as a bishop. From the tracks, she could see that he’d already made several deliveries to customers this morning.

Katie let the reins rest loosely on her lap as she took in the snowy landscape extending far out and away from the road—John’s long-ago inheritance from his father, now deceased.

It was a peaceful, sweeping spread of land, with three stately mulberry trees gracing the front yard. She could almost imagine the purple impatients hugging the base of the trees on warm days, and the lush flower beds, well tended in the spring and summer by bright-eyed Nancy, the bishop’s eldest daughter. Hanging from one of the low-lying branches, left over from the children’s play, was a thick, long rope with an icy double knot tied in its tail.

Jacob turned to speak to Katie, short puffs of breath gusting in the cold air with each word. “Did I hear ya singin’ back there just now . . . on the road?”

His innocent question took her by surprise. “Singing?”

“Jah, coming up the lane . . . I thought I heard a song.”

Katie’s pulse quickened. In a few long strides, John would be at her side. She certainly didn’t want to be discussing her songs with Jacob when the bishop came to greet her.

“Oh, probably just a little humming is all you heard.” Maybe the youngster wouldn’t press her about it.

But he wasn’t about to give up. “One of the hymns from the
Aus-bund
?” Jacob asked. “I like singin’ in church, too. I like ‘The Hymn of Praise.”’

Katie smiled nervously. Here was a boy who loved music almost as much as she did. She only hoped that he hadn’t noticed how different her song was from the ones in the sixteenth-century hymnbook.

With eyes shining up at her, Jacob pleaded, “Will ya come for supper tonight? We can sing some hymns then, maybe.”

“Well . . .” She hesitated, uncertain how to answer, since his father had not yet declared himself.

“Oh, please, Katie? I’ll even help ya cook.”

John stepped up, tousled the tumbled curls, and drew the boy close just as the older children appeared at the window, waving and smiling, looking like a row of stairsteps.

“Then we’ll invite not only Katie but her whole family, too.” John’s obvious delight was touching. Even in his heavy black work coat and felt hat—his full beard indicating his widowed status—the bishop made a right impressive sight. “And speaking of invitations, all my relatives and friends have been notified about the wedding. I finished up just this morning,” he added with an air of satisfaction.

“Mamma and I are all through, too,” Katie said, relieved that the first awkward moments had passed. “All except her Mennonite cousins, the Millers. We’ll probably send them a postcard.”

“Well, if you need to borrow any of our dishes for the wedding feast, just let me know.” He reached into the buggy and touched her hand. “Will you come for supper, then?”

She fought back her fears and put a cheerful smile on her face. “Jah, we’ll come. I’ll tell Mamma when I get home.”

“Gut, then. We’ll be looking for all of you later.” His blue-gray gaze held Katie’s with an intensity and longing she’d not witnessed before, not in John Beiler’s eyes. And he leaned close and kissed her cheek.

Despite the wintry temperature, her face grew warm and she looked down, staring at the reins in her lap. The desire in his eyes made her uncomfortable . . . aware of her own innocence and her femininity. She’d witnessed this look passing between other couples, long before she was old enough to comprehend its meaning. But there was no mistaking it now. Without further word, she inched Molasses down the slippery slope toward the main road.

“
Da Herr sei mit du—
the Lord be with you,” John called after her.

“And with you,” she replied, willing the sting out of her cheeks.

Six

Rebecca was in the kitchen pulling on her boots when Katie arrived. “I’m awful late,” she sputtered in a flurry to put on her shawl and black winter bonnet. “What’s been keepin’ you, anyway?”

“Oh, I rode down to Mary Stoltzfus’s for a bit.”

Rebecca’s lips twitched with the beginning of a smile. “Mary’s?”

Katie grinned. “Everyone’s there waiting for you, Mamma. Ella Mae, some of the cousins . . . and probably lots more by now. Better hurry.”

“Jah, I ’spect they’re waiting, all right.”

She bustled out with a wave and a gentle reminder to Katie to finish sewing her wedding dress.

It seemed odd not to be attending the quilting bee today. Quiltings were popular in winter, Katie knew. When the land was resting, the women of the church district often got together to do their needlework, waiting for the first spring thaw that would wake the good earth again.