The Crossroad Read online

  Philip groaned.

  “In a nutshell—I set up the photo shoot; you write the copy. Subject matter: the Amish.”

  “It’s been done.”

  “Not like I can do it,” Henning replied. “We go more in depth, maybe find an Amish family that’ll take us in for a few days. Up close and personal. None of this superficial and pretentious stuff. We’ll bring more humanity to the subject.”

  “With pictures,” Philip muttered.

  “Lots,” Henning replied without skipping a beat. “The way I see it, this Amish thing’s a hot button. People are just plain nuts about the plain and simple.” He laughed at his own word play. “Everyone’s yearning for the earthy, the back-to-basics approach to things … to everything.”

  What the man said rang true. Maybe the unending emphasis on technology had backfired on the entire human race. Were we, all of us, craving a simpler life, a slower pace?

  Philip studied Henning. “Count me out this time.”

  “That’s it? Just like that, you dismiss it?”

  Shaking his head, Philip said, “I don’t feel comfortable about any of it.”

  Henning rubbed his pointer finger back and forth under his nose. “I don’t follow, Phil. I thought you were smitten with the Plain culture. Bob says it’s all you talk about … Amish this, horse and buggy that.”

  Bob Snell, their editor, had every reason to regurgitate Philip’s own enthusiasm to Rick Henning. “Most Amish disapprove of photographers,” Philip explained. “It wouldn’t be such a good idea to sneak around with your high-powered lens, taking shots of folk who’ve chosen to disconnect from the outside world, which just happens to include free-lance photographers.”

  Henning’s jaw dropped. “Are you saying I can’t zoom in on the eighteenth century, standing halfway across a pasture?”

  “There’s a difference between can’t and shouldn’t.” Philip inhaled, then expelled the air loudly.

  “Hold on a minute. Couldn’t we try to get their permission—at least make some attempt?”

  Philip wasn’t surprised at his friend’s persistence.

  “Whose permission?” he asked.

  “You met some Amish folk—some you interviewed, right? Just get their consent. How hard can that be?”

  Philip thought of little Annie Yoder and her widowed mother, Rachel; the stiff-lipped Susanna Zook and her bearded husband, Benjamin. He shook his head, staring hard at the bridge of Henning’s long nose. “You really don’t get it, do you, Richard? We’re outsiders to the Amish world—two men they’d never be willing to trust, especially one with a camera poised and focused. Sorry, I’m not interested in exploiting their lifestyle to make some extra bucks.”

  “But the Amish exploit themselves. You’ve seen the tourist ads out in Ohio—tourism is a big part of their livelihood.”

  Philip stood his ground. “There are limits.”

  “All right, have it your way.” Henning got up to leave. “But I’ll be back.”

  Philip crumpled his coffee cup and threw it, but Henning ducked and scampered down the hallway.

  Philip turned his attention to the project at hand—writing three pages of upbeat, family oriented questions for Senator Thomason. Something to engage and inspire the middle-aged politician, questions to set him at ease, make him feel altogether comfortable chatting about the toddler-aged Romanian twin girls he and his wife had recently adopted. Philip promptly set to work, putting Henning and the ridiculous proposal out of his mind.

  Two

  Rachel Yoder sat next to Lavina Troyer in the older woman’s enclosed Amish buggy, wrapped in a woolen lap robe. She heard the gentle clatter and clipclop of a passing horse as they headed south on Beechdale Road toward Lavina’s house for a morning of baking. Just the two of them.

  “Nothin’ gut ever comes of deceit,” Lavina said out of the blue.

  Rachel listened intently. She had become slightly better acquainted with her father’s somewhat eccentric relative recently. The discovery of an old postcard had drawn the two women together.

  “Awful shame … the People payin’ no mind to Gabe’s preachin’ back when.”

  Of course, Rachel supposed a gut many had given it some thought, seeing as how there was a hearty group of Amish Mennonites ’round here these days. She patted her mittened hands together against the cold, attempting to warm them under the blanket. “Uncle Gabe had a right gut heart,” she said.

  “Not one bit timid ’bout preachin’ the gospel neither … long afore you was born.”

  Rachel thought on that. “I’m wonderin’ something.” She paused a moment, deciding if this was the right time to tell the woman ’bout the promptings inside her. Most everyone looked on Lavina with pity. Even Bishop Seth Fisher did, because she was slow in her mind, had to think right hard ’bout reading and writing, and needed more time than most to process her answers. Proof was in the fact that she failed near every school test she took all through eighth grade, be it true or false, multiple choice, or fill in the blank.

  “Well … cat got your tongue?”

  Lavina was trustworthy. Rachel knew it sure as anything, yet something kept her from speaking her heart. “You won’t laugh if I tell you?”

  “Never onct laughed at Gabe an’ his secret prayers.”

  Rachel was truly glad to be able to share openly with someone ’bout her mysterious relative, the young man born as hesitant and shy as she, but who’d become mighty bold, rocking the community with his teachings against powwow doctoring and superstitions. Lavina was one of the few Plain folk around who knew the whole truth about Gabriel Esh, yet looked on past events in a sympathetic manner—in light of the spiritual, too, which wasn’t all too common among the People.

  Lavina had begun to attend the Beachy church, Rachel knew, turning her back on das alt Gebrauch—the Old Ways—though at the present time she was allowed to continue fellowship with many of the womenfolk from her former church district, even hold work frolics at her farmhouse. Some folk just assumed she’d upped and joined the Beachy group because of the way she was and didn’t know any better.

  But in the past weeks since Lavina had been driving her horse and buggy over to pick up Rachel and Annie for church, Rachel had begun to understand the woman more—what made her tick and all. Jah, Lavina’s faith had nothin’ whatever to do with her being slow. After all, the Good Book said, “Except ye … become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.” So folks could flap their jaws all they wanted ’bout Lavina being backward, but when it came down to it, the gray-headed woman was the most accepting, kindest person Rachel knew. More so than her own mother, though Rachel assumed Susanna Zook was more peeved than uncaring these days.

  “If’n ya ain’t comfortable tellin’ me, well … it’s all right,” Lavina said, speaking more softly now.

  “That’s kind of you.” Rachel breathed in the frosty air, sure that Lavina would never tell a soul. Not if Rachel asked her to keep it under her bonnet, so to speak. She forged ahead, taking a deep breath. “I’ve been praying about seein’ again … that the Lord might bless me with my sight.”

  Lavina said nary a word.

  “I’ve been using Scripture tapes to memorize Bible verses ’bout divine healing, till it sinks in deep.”

  “Hate to think what some are sayin’ ’bout your blindness, Rachel. Mighty distressing, ’tis.”

  Rachel knew. Even her own kinfolk figured she was as daft as Lavina was empty-headed. “But I truly want to see again,” she said with boldness. “And in God’s time, I believe I will.”

  She felt comfortable revealing this to Lavina, ever so glad the woman wouldn’t be gasping or boring a shameless hole in her. Jah, it was right gut to express her desire because a strong and nagging feeling reminded her that the path to recovery might be a long, difficult row to hoe.

  “I’ll be prayin’” was all Lavina said as the horse pulled them forward toward the intersection of Beechdale Road and Route 340.
r />   Rachel felt her muscles relax now that she’d shared one of her deepest longings with a sister in the Lord. Her other secret desire must remain veiled, shrouded in silence forever.

  Several batches of whoopie pies were ready to be stacked in the freezer by close to midmorning. All the while, Rachel continued to talk to Lavina, though mostly a one-sided conversation, it was. “What wouldja think of goin’ to visit Adele Herr?” she asked.

  Lavina was slow to reply. “Are ya sure … you wanna go to … to Reading?”

  “I thought we could hire a Mennonite driver. Make a morning of it.”

  “An awful long ways,” Lavina said. “I … I just don’t know.”

  “We don’t hafta decide this minute, do we?” Rachel chuckled softly, a bit surprised at her own resolve. “Let’s think on it. If the Lord sees fit for us to go, we can take some goodies along. Maybe a basketful to share with the rest of the nursing home folk. Spread ’round some Christmas cheer.”

  Again Lavina remained quiet for the longest time, and while Rachel washed up, she wondered if she might’ve pushed too hard. Maybe she’d best back off the subject of visiting her great-uncle’s former English fiancée. Maybe it had been too long for Lavina since the pain of those past days, the wounds too well healed to risk scraping open again.

  Rachel set about humming awhile, drying her hands and praying that the Lord might give her wisdom to know how to ease the fear in the poor dear, though she couldn’t say for sure that she herself wouldn’t be right bashful about traipsing off to parts unknown, really and truly.

  “Adele always did like my apple butter,” Lavina said at last.

  Shuffling her feet and using her cane, Rachel felt her way across the linoleum floor of the large kitchen. She knew its setup—where the table and benches were positioned; the wood stove, sink, counter space, and batterypowered refrigerator, too—as well as she knew the kitchen at home. Long about now the sun should be pouring in real strong through the east windows, near the long trestle table. Sure enough, as she perched on the wooden bench, she felt the warmth caress her back.

  “Had a letter from Adele … a few weeks back,” Lavina said.

  Rachel was surely glad to hear this interesting tidbit. “Well, if it’s any of my business, what did she have to say?”

  “Doctor’s givin’ her a different medicine. Seems to be helpin’ some.”

  Rachel was curious, though she was too hesitant to ask. Had Adele mentioned anything of Philip Bradley in her letter?

  But Lavina was off on another tack. “Sometimes I wonder if’n folk who knew ’bout Adele and Gabe’s affection for each other … ever questioned why me ’n her never visited through the years,” she remarked.

  “I’ve wondered that myself.”

  “Me ’n Adele didn’t write all that much—mostly just Christmas cards and birthdays.”

  Rachel perked up her ears. The woman was talking up a blue streak!

  “‘Twasn’t my idea for Adele to stay put in Reading—not come to visit me none. But … well, we’d killed off her one and only love, so ’course she wouldn’t wanna come back—not here.”

  “But you invited her plenty, didn’tcha?”

  Lavina was quiet again, then she replied, “Adele was happiest teachin’ school close to home.”

  Rachel could understand that. She, too, was a homebody. “Did she ever leave Reading?”

  “Far as I know, never did.” Lavina sighed and her breath sputtered a bit. “Doubt she ever forgave the bishop for Gabe’s dyin’ an’ all.”

  “For goodness’ sake, why not?”

  “We’re sharin’ secrets today, ain’t? So I got one of my own.” Lavina drew in another deep breath. “It’s been a-troublin’ me for years, now.”

  Rachel felt herself tense up, wonderin’ what was coming next.

  “Adele did write me onct … ’bout the bishop and Gabe.”

  “She did?”

  “Jah. Guess I oughta try ’n look for it … so’s you know for yourself what I mean,” Lavina said, excusing herself.

  Rachel heard the quick footsteps on the stairs, and after what seemed like a long time, the woman returned. “Listen here to this. Back in 1963—one year after Gabe’s death—Adele wrote this to me.”

  Lavina rattled the letter and, with great effort, began to sound out the words: “‘Something tells me things were … horribly strained between Bishop Seth Fisher and Gabe … prior to the accident. You may not know it, but Gabe once told me … that the bishop had … threatened his life on more than one occasion.’”

  Rachel was aghast. “Threatened his life? Whatever for?” She thought back to Adele’s story. What had she said about any of this?

  “‘Twasn’t any secret … some of the People thought the bishop put a hex on Gabe.” Lavina’s voice trembled momentarily.

  Rachel felt breathless all of a sudden, as though someone had knocked the air out of her. “The bishop? A hex? I hate hearin’ suchlike.”

  “Well, I, for one, never believed it. ’Least I didn’t want to. And now it’s mighty hard to know for sure, really.”

  “What with most everyone who knew anything ’bout it long passed on to Glory?” asked Rachel.

  “Jah.”

  “Bishop Fisher’s still alive,” Rachel offered, hoping to draw more of the story from the one and only person who might know something ’bout her great-uncle’s untimely death.

  “Well’s … there’s no talkin’ to him.”

  “I s’pose. The way Gabe up and died … I hafta say I thought it seemed awful peculiar,” Rachel replied. “Too abrupt it was, and right after he’d started preachin’ so strong against powwow doctors and all. Does seem right suspicious, really.”

  “Best to just leave it be.”

  Leave it be… .

  Lavina’s words churned in Rachel’s mind. Her own father had said something similar when she’d asked questions about Gabe’s unjust shunning and ultimate excommunication. Rachel knew from Adele’s lips the stand Dat and others had taken in their hush-hush approach to Gabe’s ousting.

  The women’s talk eventually turned to domestic matters. “Are you comin’ to Aunt Leah’s for the quilting frolic next week?” Rachel asked.

  “If’n I don’t up and kick the ol’ bucket. That, or they make the shun worse on me than ’tis already.” Lavina laughed a little, making Rachel feel even more uneasy.

  “I don’t think we oughta talk ’bout untimely deaths or shunnings,” Rachel was quick to say. “We best guard our lips.”

  “Well, now, I think you’re right, prob’ly.”

  “The Lord’s been showin’ me some things in the Scriptures that have pricked my heart here lately.”

  Lavina spoke up. “Talk has it your cousin’s spoonfeedin’ you her beliefs.”

  “I don’t have to guess who’s sayin’ those things.” Rachel knew, sure as anything, Mam and Aunt Leah were the ones, prob’ly. “It won’t be long and the People will know for sure and for certain. What I believe ain’t just from Esther … it’s deep in my heart, too.”

  “Your great-uncle would be shoutin’ for joy … if’n he could see you now—one of his own family standin’ up for Jesus right under Bishop Seth’s nose. Just goes to show … no matter how hard the ol’ enemy tries to stamp out the torch of truth, God always raises up someone to carry it along.”

  Rachel wished she could see the heavenly glow that surely must’ve settled over Lavina’s long and slender face. Why, she’d never in all her days heard the backward woman express herself so easily, so sensibly.

  Lavina rose and poured black coffee and served some homemade cinnamon buns. “I think you may be right ’bout spreading ’round some Christmas joy … up there in Reading.”

  Rachel’s heart leaped up. “So you do wanna visit Adele?”

  “Didn’t know it before this minute, but, jah, I believe I do!”

  Rachel didn’t know what had come over her father’s cousin, but she didn’t plan to question Lavina’s de
cision.

  “I’ll do some bakin’ to take along, then.” Lavina made a slurping sound in her coffee. “It’ll be ever so nice, seein’ the dear English girl again.”

  Dear English girl. Rachel had to smile at the remark. Of course, the older woman would remember Adele Herr as the young Baptist who’d come to fill in at the oneroom school those many years ago. “Adele seemed like such a nice lady when I met her back in September. But I think it was right hard on her, tellin’ the saddest story of her life.”

  They fell silent for a time, and Rachel relished the coffee bean aroma filling the kitchen.

  It was Lavina who brought up Adele’s letter again.

  “She’s been gettin’ letters—even postcards—from her friend in New York.”

  “Would that be … the journalist who came last fall?” Rachel carefully kept her tone matter-of-fact.

  “That’s who. Said Philip’s become almost like a son. And he’s goin’ to church again, readin’ his Bible, too.”

  “Well, I’ll be….” Rachel licked the frosting from her fingers.

  “Seems them two are becoming fast friends … since he’s the one who found Gabe’s postcard, ’n all.”

  “I’m not surprised, really,” Rachel replied. And lest she give too much away, she hushed right up. Wasn’t anybody’s business how often her mind traveled back to the early autumn days, when Philip Bradley had been a guest at the B&B.

  After they’d finished drinking a second cup of coffee and devoured more than their share of sticky buns, Rachel rose to wash her hands. She was more than grateful she’d come to Lavina’s today. Seemed to her the Lord was working in both their lives! Honestly, she thought it would be ever so nice if Philip Bradley would send her a letter. ’Course, the way Mam told him off on the phone that final day, the man would have to have nerves of steel to consider such a thing!

  Three

  Kari opened the door nearly the instant his finger pressed the doorbell. “Uncle Phil!” she squealed, as though she hadn’t seen him in years. She threw her arms around his neck, and he leaned down, hugging her.