The Shunning Page 12

  Mary shrugged. “Maybe one of your children will have red hair. Wouldn’t that be right nice?”

  “My hair’s not red!”

  “Well, what do you call it, then?”

  “It’s auburn,” Katie insisted. “But you’re right about one thing. It’s about time for someone else in the Hollow to have colorful hair, don’t you think?”

  Mary was thoughtful, unexpectedly so. “You know, I guess I never thought about it, but you’re the only one around here with auburn hair.”

  Fearful of continuing on that conversational course, Katie rose and motioned Mary upstairs to the bedroom, where she dropped to her knees, opened her cedar chest, and showed her friend the many handmade linens and doilies she’d collected.

  “Does it feel strange moving into a house that’s already set up with furniture and whatnot?” Mary asked as they were refolding the dainty things.

  “Oh, I can’t say it feels strange, really. The bishop and I talked about it. We think it’s best this way . . . for the children, that is. . . .” Her voice trailed away, and she sat back on her heels, staring off into space.

  “But it bothers you, doesn’t it?”

  There she went again. Mary seemed to know instinctively what the real truth was. “Oh, it’s bothered me a little off and on, I suppose, but I’ll get used to it,” Katie replied, closing the lid of the chest and getting to her feet. “I’m sure I will.”

  What she didn’t say was that marrying any man other than her first love would bother her somewhat, at least for a time. Perhaps a good long time.

  ————

  Elam, Katie’s eldest brother, and his petite, but expectant, young wife of one year arrived a few minutes after Mary left the house. Both Elam and Annie hugged Katie and Rebecca as they came in.

  “We have our dishes all ready to load up for the wedding feast,” Annie said, smiling as she removed her winter bonnet, revealing dark chestnut brown hair under her white kapp. “Elam will bring them over tomorrow sometime . . . whenever it suits.”

  Katie was pleased to be borrowing Annie’s good dishes. Her sister-in-law was probably the sweetest girl Elam could have chosen to marry, even though he had to be the orneriest brother God ever made. Of their union, a new little Lapp was soon to arrive—in mid-January. Eager for her first niece or nephew, Katie wondered if the baby would look anything like Annie’s younger brother—her beloved Dan.

  The first time Katie had mentioned the possibility, her sister-in-law had nodded sadly, saying she truly hoped so. “Dan had the dearest face in all the world, I do believe.”

  Katie had agreed wholeheartedly. She would have loved to pursue the matter with Annie, but because her wedding date had recently been published and was widely known among the People, no more public talk of Dan Fisher was appropriate.

  “I think Mam’s gonna ask you to be servers at my wedding,” she whispered as Annie settled into the rocker near the woodstove.

  Since his favorite chair was in use, Dat went to sit at the head of the table. He rested his arms on the green-and-white checkered tablecloth, looking as though he might be expecting a piece of schnitz pie, perhaps.

  “Of course, Dat and Mam should do the asking,” Katie spoke up, glancing at Rebecca across the kitchen as she pulled dessert dishes from the cupboard.

  “Ach . . . ask away,” Elam said, giving Mam a peck on the cheek. “We can always say no, now can’t we?”

  “Well?” Rebecca eyed her son. “Would you and Annie consider being servers for the wedding?”

  Katie noticed Annie purposely glance at her tall, handsome husband, waiting submissively for Elam’s reply. He would make the decision for the two of them.

  “Jah, we’ll serve,” Elam replied cheerfully, without a trace of teasing on his ruddy face. “It’ll be an honor, you know that.” He grinned at Rebecca. “Who else will you be asking, Mam?”

  “Oh, Aunt Nancy and Uncle Noah, and Dat’s youngest brother and his wife. Close relatives, mostly.”

  “What about David and Mattie Beiler?” Elam taunted her. “Wouldn’t you like to have them help, too?”

  Before their mother could answer, Katie spoke up. “Mattie will probably be doing other things, but Abe and Rachel Stoltzfus will be helping out in the kitchen.”

  “Ah!” Elam threw up his big hands. “So . . . the best friend’s parents are pushing Mattie out, jah?”

  “Elam Lapp,” Mam reprimanded softly, “hold your tongue.”

  Katie stifled a smirk. The scene was a little comical; interesting, too. She continued to observe the joshing between her brother and Mam, keenly aware of their striking resemblance—clearly visible, even to strangers. No one would ever doubt who had given birth to the robust twenty-seven-year-old man. She envied the bond between each of her brothers and her parents—especially the obvious physical link between the firstborn of the Lapp family and Rebecca herself. Even with a year’s growth of whiskers, Elam’s facial features matched hers closely—the high forehead, the dimples, the straw-colored hair. No doubt about it, he was her boy.

  Elam had always seemed comfortable cutting up in front of Mam. Today was no exception. In spite of his sometimes obnoxious friskiness— Elam had a tendency to carry things a bit too far at times, Katie thought—he exuded a warmth of spirit, a connecting tie even now, as a married man living twenty minutes away from the old stone house. A married man come home for a Sunday afternoon visit, true, but one who loved his homeplace still. Katie sensed it, perhaps more strongly today than ever before.

  “So . . . it’s final, then—we won’t be including Mattie?” Elam persisted, teasing his Mam.

  “Jah, final” was Rebecca’s firm answer.

  “Are you sure, now? Don’t you want mad Mattie over here taking charge of your kitchen, Mam?”

  Dat let out a grunt of displeasure. After all, it was the Lord’s Day.

  Elam poked his finger into Katie’s rib, carrying the frivolity one step further. She backed away, shaking her head. Mam would have to deal with her eldest son’s never-ending shenanigans.

  And deal with him, she did. Rebecca served up schnitz pie, a hefty slice of stink cheese, and black coffee to keep Elam’s hands and mouth busy.

  More relatives—Noah and Nancy Yoder, Rebecca’s sister and husband, and six of Katie’s first cousins—showed up in time to enjoy the dried apple dessert. And if it hadn’t been a Sunday, the women would have made quick work of the walnuts and hickory nuts still waiting to be cracked for the wedding. Instead, Rebecca invited all of them back on Tuesday morning for a work frolic.

  “Will you be telling your stories again?” one of the cousins asked.

  “Oh, most likely.” Rebecca grinned, and Katie realized that her mother had taken the question as a compliment.

  Mam was beaming today—her extended family gathered around her like chicks around a hen. Warmth and goodwill seemed to permeate the house, and by the time Bishop John arrived on the scene, Katie was genuinely glad to see him.

  John took the cup that was offered him and swigged down a few sips of Rebecca’s delicious black coffee. Greetings were exchanged around the kitchen, with many relatives mentioning the upcoming wedding on Thursday.

  When the good-byes were said, Katie bundled up in her warmest shawl and headed out to the buggy with John, wondering what it would be like to bring her new husband home for a Sunday afternoon visit.

  Eleven

  The air was icy and sweet on Monday morning as Katie hung out the wash. She thought how much more pleasant it would be doing the same chore with Nancy Beiler, the bishop’s eldest daughter, at her side. It was difficult to believe that three days from now, she would be saying her wedding vows. The hours seemed to be speeding by like wild horses, much too fast.

  “Be sure and lock up the house when we go,” Rebecca told Katie before leaving with Samuel to tend to some business at the bank.

  Katie puzzled over her mother’s strange request. Here in Hickory Hollow, folks had never felt the need to do
such a thing. Nevertheless, she went around and locked the front and back doors, waiting until her parents were out of sight and Eli and Benjamin were off to a cattle sale before going to the hayloft. It was time to make good her confession promise to the bishop.

  The smell of hay filled the drafty haymow, and although she was momentarily tempted to play the instrument of evil when she found it, Katie kept the guitar case securely closed and tucked it under her arm. Surefooted, she made her way down the long wooden ladder to the lower level, where the cows came in for milking and the horses and Satin Boy were stabled and fed. Her pony whinnied playfully, but she didn’t take the time to go over and caress his beautiful long neck.

  Nor did she allow her thoughts to wander from her original purpose. Resolutely, she headed for the house. Once inside, she opened the round grate on the top of the woodstove, almost succumbing to the reckless impulse to burn the guitar and get it over with—once and for all. But when she lay the case out on the table and unsnapped both sides, she hesitated. If she opened the lid and so much as looked at Dan’s old guitar, her promise to the bishop might wither and turn to ash—much like the kindling consumed by these flames.

  But what could she do to rid herself of this wickedness without forever reliving the heart-wrenching memory of the final, destructive act, carried out by her own hands?

  There was always the cemetery. . . .

  The notion startled her at first, but it was an option. A simple wooden grave marker designated the empty spot in the earth, making note of the fact that Daniel Fisher had drowned on his nineteenth birthday. Why not bury the guitar there?

  But it was faulty reasoning, and she knew it. The ground was much too frozen now.

  Katie snapped the guitar case securely shut and carried it downstairs to the cold cellar, uncertain of her next move. Had Bishop John meant for her to do away with the guitar completely? She tried to remember his exact words at her confessing. But the more she tried, the more difficult it was to believe that such a kindhearted man would have insisted on destroying a lovely, well-crafted instrument. Surely, it would be no problem to merely put it out of sight somewhere. The idea was appealing.

  She knew she was grasping at straws, though, rationalizing away the bishop’s actual words as she crept past the rows of canned goods in her mother’s tall storage cupboards. Undaunted, she hurried through the narrow passageway to the darkest part of the cellar, where Dat had stored her former dowry furniture. Because it was dark, she backtracked, locating the flashlight Rebecca always stored in the bottom right-hand cupboard in front of several old tablecloths used for summer picnics.

  She pressed the button, and the area ahead sprang to life. Katie aimed the beam toward the corner cupboard in the depths of the cellar and wondered what it would be like to flick a switch and bathe a room in light. The reckless thought was momentary, for her gaze fastened on the lovely piece her father had made for her. She forced down the lump that tried to form in her throat and clung to the guitar, staring at the dowry furniture that might have been hers. And all the wondrous, innocent love it represented.

  With guitar in hand, she decided the tip-top of the corner cupboard was a good choice for the hiding place. She propped up the flashlight on the floor, shining it toward the cupboard, and pulled over an old water bucket to stand on, steadying herself as she hoisted the guitar case high overhead. When it was close enough to the edge of the cupboard top to slide it back and out of sight, she bumped into something.

  “What’s up there?” she said aloud, determined to accomplish the deed before anyone caught her in another act of disobedience. Carefully, she hefted the guitar case down and retrieved the flashlight, shining it high to reveal a wooden baby cradle. She thought it amusing that her mother had stored the baby bed in the exact spot—the same dark, out-of-the-way place—that she had planned to conceal her forbidden guitar.

  Katie stood on the bucket again and reached for the cradle. When she did, something rolled out and fell to the floor, smashing into pieces around her.

  “Himmel!” Annoyed, she got down and turned to investigate. There, in a beam of artificial light, lay an infant’s dress covered with shards of white milk glass. Had the dress been stuffed into the vase somehow?

  Startled by the thought, Katie leaned down and picked up the garment and gently shook away the splinters of glass from its satiny folds. Then she held the flashlight closer, completely amazed. This baby dress was strikingly similar to the one she had found in the attic.

  Driven by an urgency to know the truth, to be absolutely sure, she checked the back facing. The name stitched there was “Katherine Mayfield.”

  It appeared that someone had purposely hidden the dress. But why? She fought back unanswered questions.

  Quickly, she made her way through the dim cellar to the steep steps, climbed them, and snatched up a broom and dustpan from the utility room. She felt herself becoming frantic, her pulse racing as she surveyed the side yard for any signs of her brothers, who sometimes returned home to get something they’d forgotten. When she saw that no one was coming, she flew back down the steps to sweep up and discard the broken fragments of glass.

  Moments later, she rushed over to the Dawdi Haus next door and deposited the guitar in a crawl space. The instrument would be safe there, far from the eyes of Bishop John. And Dat.

  Back in the main house, she sat down in the front room unashamed. The deed was done—a deceitful act—yet she felt absolutely no remorse. Why should she . . . when someone in her family was being dishonest with her? Still, did another’s sin justify her own? She dismissed the annoying thought.

  The fact remained—Katherine Mayfield’s infant gown had been moved on purpose. Sadly, Katie suspected her mother. She was so certain of her supposition that, if necessary, she was prepared to confront Rebecca with the evidence.

  Rather than indulge herself in a mountain of misery, Katie set to work cleaning the oil lamps in the house, all of them. She struggled with her emotions, asking herself how her Mam could have possibly lied to her.

  She thought about last Wednesday morning, when she had inquired about the baby dress after a second look in the attic had turned up no clues. What had Mam said? Something about everything being “a bit of a blur”? Was it that she truly could not remember? Or was she simply avoiding the issue entirely?

  Katie had dismissed her mother’s response as proof of her innocence. But now? Now everything seemed to be pointing to trickery. Why?

  To keep her mind occupied, Katie set about making two green tomato pies and a pot of vegetable soup for lunch. But she found herself rushing to the kitchen door and peering out every time she heard a horse and buggy on the road. She continued to busy herself, hoping her parents might return in time to share the noon meal with her.

  When they hadn’t arrived by eleven-thirty, she went to the front room and sat in her mother’s hickory rocker, twiddling her thumbs and staring at the lovely baby garment in her lap. The minutes seemed to creep by, taunting her. She examined the workmanship, the seams, the stitching—and came to the conclusion that the gown had not been purchased in a store but rather was homemade, with the aid of an electric sewing machine.

  When Mam and Dat failed to appear, Katie went outside to check the clothes on the line. They were still a bit damp, so she left them hanging in the pale sunlight and went back inside.

  Still restless, she carried the little dress with her each time she darted to the kitchen to look at the day clock—ten times in fifteen minutes—pacing back and forth between the two rooms. What was keeping them?

  Things just didn’t add up. But no matter how long it took or what measures she had to resort to, Katie planned to move heaven and earth to discover the truth. Beginning the minute her parents arrived home.

  ————

  The lobby of the bank was crowded; the line seemed longer than usual for a Monday morning, Rebecca thought. But she waited patiently with the other patrons, most of them Englishers, although there
were a few Mennonites and other Plain folk. None, however, that she recognized.

  When she finally reached the head of the line and the next available teller’s number appeared in red dotted numerals on the counter screen, Rebecca hurried to booth five and set her wicker basket down in front of her. Hastily, she filled out the withdrawal form, while the woman in the open booth waited.

  “I want to close out this account.” Rebecca pushed the bank slip in the direction of polished red fingernails. “And I’d like the balance made out to Katie Lapp—in a money order, if ya don’t mind.”

  The owner of the red nails nodded and promptly left to carry out the transaction.

  Later, when Rebecca met up with Samuel at the designated street corner, she walked beside him in silence, ignoring the stares of the people whizzing by in their fast cars. The notion that one of those people might be Katie’s natural mother was horrifying. Instinctively, Rebecca moved closer to Samuel’s side, wondering if that woman— that Laura Mayfield-Bennett—was out there somewhere right now— observing her, watching her every move, in the hope that Rebecca would lead her to the child she had loved for so long but had never known. . . .

  Once she was safely bundled into the carriage, sitting to Samuel’s left, Rebecca felt protected. Their familiar rig, pulled by old Molasses, stood as a shield against the modern English world.

  “Did you get the dowry money for Katie, then?” Samuel asked, glancing at Rebecca.

  “Jah, I have it.”

  “Wouldn’t it be right nice to give it to her tonight at supper? That way Eli and Benjamin can be in on the celebrating.”

  Rebecca rallied somewhat at the prospect of a festive evening, sitting a bit straighter as they headed through the traffic toward the Old Philadelphia Pike. “Jah, a gut idea. Won’t Katie be surprised, though?”

  Samuel’s face broke into a wide grin, and Rebecca knew she must tell him about the letter right away. But she would break the news as gently as possible. “It’s a smart thing for Katie to be marrying the bishop this week.”