The Shunning Page 11

John’s words tumbled over and over in her mind: “It is a redemptive thing,” he’d said about her confession. And it was, of course. Her act of confession assured her a good standing in the church. So she must obey the rules. Her future depended upon it.

  Yet why did she feel stifled? Trapped? Her heart imprisoned along with the forbidden songs?

  Hours before, she’d come clean, but her heart felt wicked still. Not at all the way she thought she would feel after baring her soul. What was keeping her from the straight and narrow? What more could she do?

  Dan Fisher had spoken of this very thing once during a buggy ride home from a Singing a few days before his drowning. Katie had listened in confusion as he rattled on and on about something he’d found in Galatians, where the apostle Paul spoke about not building your faith on church rules, but on Christ. Dan had even read aloud the verses from chapter 5, and she remembered being surprised that he was carrying a paraphrased version of the New Testament around in his pocket. An odd thing for a baptized Amishman!

  “The Ordnung can’t save us, Katie,” he’d said with a serious look in his eyes. “Our forefathers weren’t educated in the Scriptures . . . they didn’t study the Bible so they could teach it to the People. They made rules for the Old Order to follow. Man-made rules.”

  Katie had heard about the four elderly bishops back in 1809, who’d issued a ruling about excommunicating members who failed to obey the Ordnung. But she was in love, and whatever Dan chose to believe about their Swiss ancestors was fine with her; she wasn’t going to argue with him. Besides, he’d probably gotten himself invited to a Mennonite Bible study or prayer meeting somewhere. The Mennonites were known for seeking out the truths of God’s Word, and many of them ended up becoming missionaries.

  At the time, Katie figured Dan had encountered some Bible-thumpers, that was all. But she hoped he’d be careful about his affiliation with outsiders. Especially Mennonites. He could get himself shunned for such things as that!

  Katie cringed. Die Meinding, the shunning, was a frightful thing. The word itself stirred powerful emotions among the People. Feelings of rejection, abandonment . . . fear.

  She could remember her Mammi Essie telling about a man who had been shunned for using tractor power. None of the People could so much as speak to him or eat with him, lest they be shunned, too.

  “It’s like a death in the family,” Essie had told her. And Katie, only a youngster at the time, had been sorry for the outcast man and his family.

  But it wasn’t until she met his little daughter, Annie Mae, during a spelling bee at their one-room school, that Katie understood the depth of sadness involved. No one knew what to say to Annie Mae. They either said nothing at all or were extra nice, as if that could somehow make up for her father’s pain.

  Even though the children were pretty much sheltered from church affairs, they could all see that after the shunning, Annie Mae was no longer the same. It was as if she’d been stripped bare, robbed of something precious. Katie had even been fearful that, unless Annie Mae’s father submitted to a kneeling confession and pleaded for forgiveness, his little girl might suffer for the rest of her life.

  Along with all the other children in the Hickory Hollow church district, Katie had been taught never to deviate in the slightest from the Ordnung. Once you began to stray, you were on your way out the church door.

  Well, nobody’ll ever hafta worry about me, young Katie had thought after witnessing the plight of Annie Mae’s father. Never would she willfully disobey and disgrace her family and her church. Never would she step so far from the fold as to be shunned. . . .

  ————

  Moments after Ella Mae Zook lifted the reins and drove her carriage toward the western horizon, now deepening to smoke gray, Rebecca stumbled into the house, her heart thumping hard against her rib cage. This letter in her hand, this stationery . . .

  She clutched it to her, casting furtive glances about the kitchen to be sure she was alone. Alone, as Ella Mae had kindly suggested.

  The room, strangely cold, fell silent. Rebecca reached for a butcher knife and sliced through the envelope, making a long, clean opening at the top. Fingers trembling, she reached inside to find a business-size letter folded in thirds. Slowly, she opened the page and read:

  Dear Rebecca (the adoptive mother of my child),

  I am sorry to say that neither my mother nor I took the time to learn your last name that day in the Lancaster hospital twenty-two years ago. Unfortunately, things were spinning out of my control that June fifth morning.

  Perhaps I seemed too young to be presenting you with my newborn daughter. And yes, I was young. Irresponsible, as well, to have conceived the tiny life. The guilt is long since gone, but the grief for my lost child remains, forever imprinted on my heart.

  It is with great apprehension that I contact you in this way. My prayer is that you may understand my motive, for I must be honest with you, Rebecca. The baby girl I gave to you has been living in my heart all these years. Yes, I must speak the truth and say that I am sorry I ever gave her away. Now more than ever, because, you see, I am dying.

  A number of specialists have suggested that I “get my house in order” as I have only a few months to live. With this recent news, you will understand why I am desperately longing to see Katherine—if only once more—before I die.

  Of course, it is very possible that you and your husband did not choose to keep the name I gave my baby, and perhaps, wisely so.However, I respectfully request your help in making a way for our initial meeting—my daughter’s and mine. Since I am praying that you will respond favorably to my plea, I am enclosing my address.

  Thank you, Rebecca, for all you have done for Katherine, for the years of love you and your husband have given her. Please be assured that I have no plans to interfere in her life or yours in any mean-spirited way. My search for my child is purely a love search.

  May the Lord bless you always,

  Laura Mayfield-Bennett

  Halfway through the first paragraph, Rebecca had to sit down. “Oh my, no . . . no,” she muttered to herself. “This can’t be. It just can’t.”

  She reread the letter several times, tears welling up when she came to the part about Laura’s sadness over losing her baby. The loss of a child—any child—whether to adoption or to death was a searing, life-altering experience, she knew. She knew.

  Yet everything in her resisted the notion of arranging for the meeting of this—this woman with her precious Katie! She—Rebecca Lapp, not Laura Mayfield-Bennett—was Katie’s mother!

  Still, hadn’t the young woman said she was dying? Dying! What age would she be? Late thirties? Maybe even younger. Rebecca had no idea, for there had never been any information exchanged between the two families. The adoption had never been finalized. The infant girl had needed a home; she and Samuel had just lost their tiny newborn. Heartsick and barren, Rebecca had accepted the baby as a gift from the hands of the heavenly Father.

  God, in His great Providence, had put her and Samuel in the path of the pitifully sad teenager with auburn hair. And that teenager— Laura—had kissed her baby girl good-bye and placed her in Rebecca’s open arms. Who was to question the rightness, the legitimacy of such an act?

  But in her heart, Rebecca knew that the identity of the infant she’d named Katie—and raised on a Pennsylvania farm in a sandstone house passed down from one generation of Lapps to the next—had never truly existed. Not really. Such a flimsy arrangement would never hold up in a modern court of law. No, if truth be told, Katherine Mayfield, the daughter of a fancy woman . . . Katherine, with English blood coursing through her veins . . . Katherine, with a bent for forbidden melodies and guitars—she was the girl who had lived here and grown up Amish all these years.

  “And now her real mother wants her back,” Rebecca moaned, rocking back and forth. “She’ll probably come right back to Hickory Hollow . . . and take Katie away from me.”

  She felt her heart skip a beat and the startlin
g sensation caught her by surprise, taking her breath. With a great sigh, she stood up, crumpling the letter in her hand. “I won’t be writing back, Laura Mayfield-Bennett. I won’t!”

  Without regard for Samuel’s interest in the matter, or asking his advice—without thinking any of that—Rebecca got to her feet, walked directly to the old woodstove, and fed the letter—envelope and all— into its blazing belly.

  As if from a great distance, she heard the back door swing open and Katie come rushing inside. She did not look up, but stared at the fire as it licked up the remains of the secret past.

  “Mamma?”

  She recognized Katie’s voice and wondered how long she herself had been standing there, gazing into the red and orange flames.

  “Mam, are ya all right?” Katie touched Rebecca’s arm and she straightened, calling up all the strength left in her.

  Slowly, she turned to face her daughter. “Where’s Dat?”

  “He’s on his way in. He and the boys are coming for supper soon.”

  Rebecca went about fixing leftovers and forced a smile—a frozen mockery of a thing. Katie must not suspect that anything was wrong. She must never know that another woman, a complete stranger, had given birth to her. Or that this woman was even now dying of a terminal disease. Or that the letter—the one that might have opened the door to fancy dresses and mirrors and music—was shriveling in the heat of an Amish cookstove, only inches away.

  Ten

  The third Sunday in November was an off Sunday. Every other Lord’s Day, the Amish community had a day of rest. The time was to be spent quietly at home or, as was more often the case, visiting friends and relatives.

  Katie and her family had planned a peaceful day together, tending only the necessary chores and, in general, enjoying one another’s company— the last such Sunday before her wedding day.

  After lunch, Mary Stoltzfus stopped by with the finished wedding quilt, eyes shining as she greeted each member of the Lapp family. Eli seemed to pay more attention than usual when Mary walked through the kitchen and into the front room. This did not come as a surprise to Katie, for her dearest friend was glowing today.

  Mary’s mother, Rachel, had often warned, “Perty is as perty does.” If the old adage was true, then Mary was the model, for she was as pretty inside as out.

  Eli followed them into the front room and sat down on a straight-backed cane chair across from them, looking up occasionally from his crossword puzzle as they made over the quilt. Then Benjamin came in and suggested to his brother that they “take to visitin’.” But from the twinkle in Ben’s eyes, Katie suspected that they were on their way to see their girlfriends.

  “So long,” Mamma called from her wooden rocker across from Dat, who was snoring softly in his matching chair. The boys waved but continued on through the kitchen to the utility room, making plans in low tones and laughing softly.

  “Will your Beau be comin’ over after a bit?” Mary asked.

  “Jah.” Katie couldn’t hide a blush. “John will be coming to take me with him to pay a visit to his preacher friend over in SummerHill. There’s been some trouble with a few boys at the Singings.”

  “Really? What kind of trouble?”

  “Oh, just boyish rowdiness, I guess. Some of them have been bringing fiddles and guitars—such like that.”

  At the mention of guitars, Mary frowned slightly, and Katie wondered if she was going to ask if she’d gotten rid of hers yet. To fill the awkward silence, she spoke up quickly. “I heard they even had a portable CD player over there one night. Can you imagine that?”

  “CD player? What’s that?”

  “Oh, it’s some sort of machine that plays music on tiny little records.”

  “Well, if that don’t beat all.”

  “I tell you, Mary, things are changing mighty fast around here. I remember when we weren’t even allowed harmonicas at Singing.”

  Mary nodded. “You’re right, and they still don’t use them much here in the Hollow. Not since John Beiler was ordained bishop a few years back. He’s stricter than some, you know.” She reached for Katie’s hand. “But I’m glad we have a firm, standhaft bishop, really. And, just think, come Thursday, you’re going to be his bride.”

  Katie smiled, gripping Mary’s hand tightly. “And everything’s all ready for the wedding.” She looked around at the freshly painted walls and scrubbed floor. “Dat and the other men did a right fine job of closing off the porch, don’t you think?”

  She led Mary to the front door, where they looked out, inspecting the long porch area through the heavy, double-paned glass.

  “Oh, Katie, I almost wish I was you,” Mary whispered, her face close enough for her breath to cloud the windowpane.

  “Really? Why?” Puzzled, Katie turned to regard her friend. “Did you want to marry the bishop?”

  Mary’s hands shot up to cover her flaming face. “Ach, no—I meant nothing of the kind!”

  “What then? How could you be wishing you were me?”

  Mary glanced at Dat, who was still napping, and dropped her voice to a hushed tone. “I just meant I wish I was getting married soon.”

  “Oh, Mary . . .” Katie reached for her friend and hugged her hard. “You’ll have your day, you’ll see. One of the fine fellas around here— one of them will be shining his flashlight at your window someday real soon now.” She sincerely hoped she was speaking the truth—that it would happen just as she had predicted. “Come on now. There’s apple strudel left from lunch!”

  In the kitchen, Katie served hearty slices and filled two cups with her Mam’s good coffee.

  “Mm-m, des gut,” Mary said after her first bite. “Is it your mamma’s recipe?”

  “Jah.”

  “Then I best be getting it.”

  “I’ve tasted your pastries, Mary Stoltzfus. You need no help there!”

  They finished off their dessert, still chattering on about the wedding plans. “I couldn’t be happier about you being my side sitter,” Katie said, referring to her attendant for the preaching service, held during the first two hours of the wedding.

  “Well, who else would you have picked?” Mary’s eyes sparkled.

  “Nobody. You’re my one and only choice. I never had sisters to choose from, you know.”

  Mary brushed the crumbs toward the center of the table. “I’m glad . . . in a way. If you had, then maybe I wouldn’t be getting to have a place of honor at your wedding. And maybe . . . we’d never have been such close, dear friends.”

  There was a moment of silence while they pondered the changes Katie’s marriage would bring. “Oh, Mary, how will it be, me going off and getting married and leaving you behind, all single? Wouldn’t it have been wonderful-gut if we could’ve had a double wedding?”

  Then, thinking out loud, she added, “Maybe I should wait a bit longer, put the bishop off . . .’til Chicken Joe asks you to marry him . . . or Preacher’s boy.”

  Mary’s mouth dropped wide. “Don’t you go saying such things! God’s ways are best, Katie. Besides, poor Bishop John’s been waitin’ an awful long time for you as it is.”

  “A long time?” Katie was surprised to hear it. “How do you know?”

  Mary frowned, and it appeared that maybe her friend feared she’d spoken out of turn. But Katie pushed for an answer. “Just what are you saying?”

  Mary cocked her head and narrowed her gaze. “I know it’s true.

  The bishop’s had his eyes on you for a gut long time. I’ve seen the way he watches you. Ach, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been in love with you since before your baptism.”

  Katie groaned. “But Dan and I were in love back then, so how could it be that the bishop—”

  “Oh, I’m not saying Bishop John was jealous of Dan,” Mary quickly interrupted, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean that at all.”

  Thinking back, Katie realized what Mary must be referring to. “Oh, that. John was just being extra kind and helpful after Dan drowned, that’s all.”<
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  “Well . . . maybe so. John Beiler’s a kind, God-fearing man, of course.” Mary sighed. “It must be awful gut to have someone like that eager to be marrying you.”

  Katie cleared off the table, then came back over to sit across from Mary. “Before, when you were talking about John watching me . . . well, you didn’t mean he had that serious, uh . . . that intense look in his eyes, did you?”

  “Katie Lapp! I never meant to be putting such a notion in your head!” came the fiery retort. “John Beiler’s an ordained bishop, for goodness’ sake!”

  Katie nodded, thinking, wondering. John Beiler was also a human being. She had seen clear evidence of longing in his eyes, but it wasn’t something she felt she should share—even with her closest friend.

  “Please, whatever you do, don’t go telling anyone what I said just now, you hear?” Mary sounded almost desperate.

  Katie nodded in agreement, but her mind went swirling off, thinking back to the way John had glossed over her confession. Was it because of his fondness for her? Because he didn’t want to be harsh with his future wife?

  “Whatcha thinking now?” Mary asked, straightening her apron as she stood and went to the cookstove to warm her hands.

  “Nothing much.” Katie remained seated, watching Mary, wishing things could stay the way they were between them.

  “Well, that’s gut, because I don’t want you thinking at all ’til after the wedding. Then, in a couple of days, I’ll come visit you over at the bishop’s house and hear all about the names you’ve picked out for your first baby come spring.” Her broad grin revealed slightly crooked front teeth.

  “Why, you . . .” Katie hustled over to her, jostling and poking at Mary’s ribs. If it hadn’t been the Lord’s Day, she would have been tempted to hale her friend outside for a snowball fight. As it was, Katie’s prayer kapp was knocked askew, and Rebecca had to shush them from the front room.

  “We’re still just like two kid goats, ain’t?” Katie whispered, trying to squelch another giggle. “And here you are—talking about the little ones you think I’ll be having soon.”