The Tinderbox Page 17

  “No sense waiting,” Rhoda said, not hesitating.

  The secret’s been eating away at her, too, Earnest thought as he pushed his feet into his old brown slippers.

  Earnest wiped the beads of perspiration from his upper lip, aware of the trepidation yet also a sense of resolve as he lifted the driving lines in the carriage and signaled Lily to move ahead. Rhoda, sitting next to him, was the picture of calm and serenity. She believed God wanted them to confess, he recalled.

  Stopping at the end of the driveway to see if the road was clear, Earnest was startled to see Deacon Luke’s horse and carriage appear and make the sharp turn into the lane. The deacon halted his horse and waved to Earnest to back up.

  What’s going on? he wondered, doing as the deacon indicated and halting Lily in the side yard. Then, climbing out of the carriage, he got out to talk to Luke.

  “Can ya spare the time to sit down with me, Earnest?” Luke said from the driver’s side of his buggy. He sounded quite firm, and Earnest knew something was up.

  “We can talk privately in my shop,” he replied, returning to his waiting horse and carriage to let Rhoda know. Rhoda didn’t ask why the deacon had come, though Earnest could tell by her expression that she was curious.

  The men tied their horses to the hitching post, and the three of them walked across the yard to Earnest’s shop, where he closed the door and invited Luke to hang his straw hat on a wooden peg. Earnest pulled up a chair for Rhoda, as well. Then, going to sit in his work chair, he looked fondly at his wife, knowing she was nervous.

  “Why’s he here?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know,” Earnest said quietly.

  Deacon Luke sat down, a frown on his ruddy face as he looked straight at Earnest. His thick gray hair matched his stick-straight beard. “I’m here on a church matter—a complaint from someone who worked alongside you in Maryland.”

  Surprised, Earnest recalled the good fellowship he’d had with the other men there, Titus Kauffman included.

  Luke continued. “I understand you had a number of private sessions with a Mennonite minister?” he asked. “Quite frequent, too?”

  Earnest knew there was no denying it. “Jah, my great-uncle Martin Zimmerman.”

  “So it’s true, then.”

  “We were discussing—” Earnest stopped, and taking a deep breath, he caught Rhoda’s eye. She looked terrified. “My talks with Uncle Martin helped me see the flaws in my thinking . . . brought me to the realization that I must confess my sin of deceit,” he said. “He instructed me to seek forgiveness from the brethren,” Earnest added, emphasizing this.

  It was Luke’s turn to look confused. “Forgiveness? For what? I’m talkin’ about taking counsel from an outsider,” he clarified. “And to be frank on this, Preacher Kauffman met me early this mornin’ over at my farm to relay what his son Titus observed.”

  So it was Titus, Earnest thought sadly. “Well, you don’t know the half of it,” he said, ready to get the confession out in the open.

  “Maybe you should inform me,” Deacon Luke demanded.

  “Rhoda and I were on our way over to your place . . . to talk to you,” Earnest said, wringing his hands, thinking that his plan had been turned on its head. Even so, he began to tell of his first marriage as a young college student, and the subsequent divorce against his will. He told of having withheld this truth from even Rhoda and his closest friend, Preacher Mahlon, as well as from the People. “I’ve asked God to forgive me.” Earnest looked at his dear wife. “And Rhoda, too.” He turned to the deacon. “And now I humbly ask for your forgiveness.”

  Deacon Peachey’s brown eyes seemed to grow darker by the second. “You were divorced when ya came to Hickory Hollow seekin’ to be Amish?”

  “Jah.”

  Luke ran his thick fingers through his beard, frowning hard. “Then you had no business joining church.” As he said it, Luke looked befuddled, having always been so fond of Earnest. “You surely knew that.”

  Rhoda’s face was pale. And it killed Earnest to drag her through this again.

  “I’m here to confess . . . to say that I’m sorry,” Earnest said, his voice faltering. “And willing to do whatever is required to demonstrate my sincerity.”

  Still frowning, Luke nodded. “What reason do ya have for living this deception these many years?”

  Earnest’s eyes met Rhoda’s momentarily. Then, focusing solely on the deacon, he said, “I wanted a new life after my first wife left me and married another man.” He paused for a breath. “And although I had planned to tell the truth about my past, I became afraid of losing my new life with the People. . . . It brought me such hope and healing in the aftermath of my disastrous marriage.” Earnest sighed and shuffled his feet where he sat.

  Deacon looked at Rhoda. “And, Rhoda, you knew of this?”

  Rhoda’s lower lip quivered as she stated how she’d recently learned the truth—and how wicked she’d felt keeping Earnest’s secret these past weeks. “It was my idea to keep quiet about it and not come forward to the brethren,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “Both Earnest and I have realized how wrong that was. I’ve offered my confession before the Lord.”

  The deacon took his time, folding his hands, his eyes blinking as he stared at the floor. Finally, he pursed his lips and gave Earnest a serious look. “I will meet with the bishop and fill him in on what you both have confessed.”

  Earnest nodded.

  “But I can’t say what will be done. You came to us an outsider, Earnest, and you certainly convinced us that you were genuinely interested in becoming one of us. We trusted you. . . .” Luke paused, wearing a serious frown. “You shared the confidence of the ministerial brethren, particularly Mahlon Zook, and now you’re telling me that you lied from the beginning. Not only to the ministers, but to your wife and children.”

  “And I’m deeply sorry,” Earnest whispered.

  Turning to Rhoda, the deacon continued, “I am, however, closing the issue with you today, Rhoda, for your failure . . . but a lesser offense than your husband’s.” He offered her a reassuring smile. “I appreciate your penitent heart.” Then, looking again at Earnest, his stern expression returned as he stated, “I can only say that Bishop John will be greatly disappointed that you deceived the People as you did . . . as well as for seeking frequent counsel outside the church while you were in Maryland.” He went on to instruct Earnest not to attend the next week’s Preaching service, when Bishop John would surely name him to the church membership as a transgressor.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Six

  Sylvia had gone out to water Promise, the deacon’s mare, as well as Lily, both horses still hitched to their carriages, a half hour after her parents and Deacon Peachey headed into her father’s shop. Initially, she’d shivered at the sight of the three of them looking so somber as they walked together. What caused the deacon to show up out of the blue?

  A large hawk flew over the backyard, and its hoarse screech alerted Sylvia as it landed on the roof, staring down at something in the thicket, probably a squirrel.

  “Shoo!” she called. “Nix nutz.” Good-for-nothing pest, she thought.

  Sylvia turned back to the horses, giving each a sugar cube and some gentle stroking, like she’d learned to do from Dat. She thought of unhitching Lily to lead her back to the stable but wasn’t sure if her parents might still be planning to go somewhere once the deacon left. Anymore, there were too many questions spinning around in her head, questions that seemingly had no answers, nor any hope of one. Although it would be easy to fret, Sylvia refused to give in to worry.

  Suddenly, there was a swoosh of wings, and Sylvia saw the hawk glide straight toward the ground, intent on a helpless squirrel. Turning her head, Sylvia did not want to see the outcome, even though she was a farm girl and around animals all the time. She had always wondered why there were such vicious critters just waiting to pounce on their prey.

  ———

  Some moments later,
Sylvia watched through the kitchen window as Dat and Deacon Peachey ambled across the backyard to the deacon’s horse and carriage. Sylvia had been gathering up the trash but was now reluctant to open the door and walk over to the burn barrel behind the side of the barn. Should she wait till the deacon was gone? And where was Mamma now? Had she stayed in the shop?

  Sylvia wanted to go over there in the worst way but realized she had better keep her nose out of this.

  That evening, Sylvia was still wondering what on earth had transpired earlier between the deacon and her parents when she hurried outdoors for a walk, hoping to follow Mamma’s example and use that time to pray.

  She admired the lovely lavender bushes off to the right-hand side of the driveway. Dozens of bees buzzed around the blossoms, gathering nectar. She didn’t want to risk being stung but was tempted to go over and sniff the fragrance. Moving a little closer, she breathed in the scent, grateful to God for such beauty as she headed toward the road.

  She had walked about a half mile when she saw Titus riding this way in his black open buggy, waving his straw hat and grinning.

  “Want to ride with me, Sylvie?” he called, halting the horse.

  His jovial expression and eagerness drew her across the road, and he met her with a welcoming embrace. “I missed seein’ ya.”

  “How’d ya know I’d be out walkin’?”

  “Oh, just took a chance,” he said. “Otherwise, I was goin’ to wait till dark and toss some pebbles up against your window, like before.”

  She smiled as she stepped into his courting carriage, surprised at how upbeat he was after the things she’d said before he left for Maryland. Almost too cheerful . . . Tonight, she wouldn’t bring up any of that business about where they would stay as newlyweds. She simply wanted to enjoy being with him.

  Titus held her hand until twilight fell, and then he slipped his arm around her and asked why she hadn’t written back. “I hoped you would.”

  “I started a couple letters to you but wasn’t sure what I wanted to write. And later, I didn’t think a letter would get to you, not before you were home again.” She still had wanted to send one to him . . . sometime.

  Titus leaned over and kissed her cheek. “My time away seemed longer than I expected,” he said. “I kept thinkin’ about you, wanting to see you again.” He glanced at her. “And, something else, Sylvie. I don’t see why we can’t compromise and spend the first three weeks after we’re wed at your parents’ house and the last three at mine. Or whatever you’d like. How would that be?”

  She liked the sound of this. Yet Titus had seemed so adamant before—what changed his mind? “Jah, that might work,” she said happily.

  And all during the rest of the evening, he was so remarkably cheerful and attentive, it made her wonder if just missing her had been enough to change his perspective.

  Late that Saturday night, Sylvia slipped over to see her father in the clock shop. There, she found him polishing the glass covering the large face of the grandfather clock that Connie Kauffman had been so enamored with.

  “Dat?” she called softly. “Just hopin’ you might tell me that everything’s gonna be all right.” She mentioned seeing the deacon come by unexpectedly that morning. “I hoped maybe you or Mamma might’ve said something before now.”

  Moving toward her, Dat offered a small smile. “Things will be in time, I hope.” He set down the cloth on the worktable. “I meant to talk to you, and I’m glad you asked, Sylvie, since it’s only right that you hear it from me.”

  “Hear what?” She held her breath as Dat explained the decision that he and her mother had made.

  “I’ll soon be under church discipline. It means I won’t be permitted to attend Preaching next Sunday.” His voice was low. “I don’t know if I’ll be put off church permanently or temporarily . . . but your Mamma and I know it was right for us to confess to the deacon.”

  “Mamma confessed, too?”

  He nodded. “For joining in my deceit, keeping my former marriage confidential since I told her about it.”

  Sylvia frowned. “But what about me?”

  “Nee, no confession is necessary from you, since you’re not baptized yet.”

  She looked at him, her dear Dat. With all that was on him, he was not downhearted, as she might have expected. “You said you might be excommunicated? Mamma too?”

  “My discipline is in Bishop John’s hands now, but nee, your Mamma is not in danger of that.”

  Sylvia was relieved for her mother but had to ask, “What’s the worst that can happen to ya, Dat?”

  “I could be shunned for life,” he said.

  Sylvia trembled at his words. “Oh, Dat.” She dreaded what this might mean for him—for all of them, really. “When will ya know?”

  “The bishop might visit me before next Sunday, or I might be told after church.” Dat reached to touch her shoulder. “But I don’t want you to worry, Sylvie. This is in the brethren’s hands. I sinned and must pay the penalty.”

  “Do my brothers have any idea?” she managed to say.

  “I’ll talk to them soon, so they understand why I won’t be at church.”

  She felt an urge to hug him, but that was frowned on at her age. “I love ya, Dat, and always will. I want you to know. . . .” She swallowed hard. She didn’t want to think of their family being split apart, but surely that would happen if he was permanently excommunicated.

  On the Sunday Earnest was not allowed to attend Preaching, Rhoda got into the family carriage and picked up the driving lines. Except for the occasional illness and Earnest’s time in Maryland, she could not remember having gone without him since their wedding. It felt ever so strange.

  Sylvia sat next to her in the front seat, dressed in her pretty blue dress and white organdy apron, with Tommy, wearing one of his new white Sunday shirts and his black trousers and black coat, perched next to Sylvia. The rest of the boys were in the second bench seat, all of them mighty still.

  Earnest had talked with them yesterday at breakfast, explaining that he would be staying home from church at the deacon’s request because of something wrong that he did a long time ago.

  “You’re bein’ punished?” Tommy had asked, eyes big, eyebrows raised.

  Earnest had been visibly shaken but told Tommy that he planned to tell them everything they needed to know, once they were home from Preaching. Rhoda had agreed that it was better that way.

  Tommy hadn’t asked another question, though he had scrunched up his face as if more was on his mind. Ernie and Calvin had grimaced, but neither spoke. Adam, on the other hand, sat stiff and straight-faced as he picked at his scrambled eggs.

  It was Rhoda whose heart was breaking . . . for her dear children, who would soon know the startling truth about their father’s past. She and Earnest had privately discussed how to best handle this, not wanting the children to hear it from the grapevine, which had a way of spilling the beans, even about something as hush-hush as a bishop’s pronouncement at a members-only meeting. That being the case, they planned for her to bring the children right home after the fellowship meal so Earnest could sit down with them and summarize his past, explaining the need for church discipline.

  ———

  Almost as soon as his family departed for Preaching, Earnest heard another carriage coming up the driveway. “A visitor on a Preaching Sunday?” he murmured, glad he’d dressed appropriately—nice enough to attend church, though of course he had been told to stay home.

  Rising from his chair in the front room, Earnest wandered to the back of the house and looked through the screen door. When he saw Bishop John stepping out of his enclosed gray carriage, Earnest’s breath caught deep in his throat. Adrenaline raced through his veins. “Hullo, John,” he called, stepping barefoot out on the porch.

  John’s demeanor was staid as he walked toward the house and up the back steps. “Wanted to talk to you before ya hear it from Rhoda.”

  Earnest clenched his teeth. “Have a seat,�
�� he offered, motioning toward the rocking chair nearest John.

  “Nee . . . won’t stay long.” John was the picture of a well-dressed Amish minister in his white shirt, black trousers, vest, and frock coat—longer than an ordinary coat and with a split up the back. “Your family’s off to church, jah?” John asked.

  Nodding, Earnest suspected why he’d come. “I’ll be talking with my children when they return home,” he volunteered.

  “I see.” John seemed to gather himself, glancing at the porch floor, then at Earnest. “After prayer and discussion with Preacher Kauffman and Deacon Peachey, I’ve decided on a six-week Bann. During that time, you will not eat at the same table as any church member, nor can you take money or any other object directly from another church member’s hand. When you attend worship in two weeks, you’ll need to sit with your head bowed and cover your face during the entire first sermon, and you won’t be able to share a hymnal with any church member. You’ll also meet with the ministers at the beginning of church, and every day or so one of us will drop by to encourage you during this time of chastisement, supportin’ you in the hope that you see it through to the final Sunday of the sixth week . . . and the day of your public kneelin’ confession.”

  In all the years Earnest had known him, Bishop John had never sounded so solemn.

  Earnest inhaled slowly, sending air deep into his lungs. He felt terribly embarrassed, his pride wounded. This short-term exile was a serious matter with strict guidelines, but all the same, he wanted to thank John for not casting him aside for life. He would have to do exactly as he was told if he wanted to return to being a member in good standing.

  “It’s my desire to extend peace and fellowship to you in the name of the Lord at the end of this Bann,” Bishop John said. “But it is a grave offense to deceive God . . . and the church. A grave offense, indeed.”

  Earnest understood and watched him walk back out to his horse and carriage, relieved that his preacher friend Mahlon didn’t have to share in the difficult ordeal just ahead. How I would have disappointed him, too. . . .