The Englisher

by Beverly Lewis

  ‘‘I like it here in Paradise,’’ she admitted, ‘‘but I’m only visiting.’’

  ‘‘Well, word has it you’re stayin’ on awhile yet,’’ he said, face full of hope.

  She shook her head. ‘‘I haven’t decided how long.’’ She wouldn’t lead him to think she was setting up a permanent residence at the Zooks’, even though his smile faded rapidly with her words.

  The light from the moon cast a shadow on the footboard of Annie’s bed. Louisa stared at it for a moment, then rose and tiptoed over to Annie and placed the furry ball in her arms. ‘‘Here, you hold him awhile.’’

  ‘‘Can’t you sleep?’’ asked Annie.

  ‘‘Can you?’’

  ‘‘Not yet, anyway.’’ Annie let out a tiny laugh.

  Louisa returned to her bed, sitting up. ‘‘Do you think we’ll get slammed by that blizzard everyone’s talking about?’’

  ‘‘The cattle seemed awful restless durin’ afternoon milking.’’

  Neither of them was willing to bring up the subject weighing on their minds. Instead, Louisa moved away from the topic of cows and snowstorms and mentioned something she had been thinking but had never voiced. ‘‘Have I ever told you this? When you wrote your first letter to me—when I wasn’t expecting to get a letter from an Amish girl—I was absolutely ecstatic?’’

  ‘‘I’m sure you told me, jah. But it would be fun to sort through the letters sometime.’’

  ‘‘Sure would,’’ Louisa agreed. ‘‘What I was getting to is I had felt so lonely, being an only child, up until the point your letter showed up in the mailbox. Of course, the one from your non-Amish neighbor, Jenna Danz, arrived around that same time, too . . . but I think yours actually beat hers.’’

  Annie made soft kitty sounds to Muffin. ‘‘I know I was awful happy to hear back from you,’’ Annie replied. ‘‘I wasn’t sure if I would, ya know.’’

  ‘‘I felt so disconnected from my family at that time, even though I knew I was loved. I don’t know why I felt so emotionally starved, even as a small girl.’’ She plumped her pillow. ‘‘Annie, you were the very friend I needed then . . . and now. The way you expressed yourself in your letters managed to break through my foggy, dysfunctional life.’’

  ‘‘You must’ve been as forlorn as I was, floundering over my inclination toward art.’’

  ‘‘Yeah, no kidding.’’

  ‘‘Well, like Daed often says: Life isn’t supposed to be happy all the time. You know—the rain falls on the just and the unjust.’’

  ‘‘Speaking of which, what sort of trouble will Sam Glick be in if word gets out about his dating me?’’

  ‘‘I’d say he’s fine for now. Who’s gonna spill the beans?’’

  Louisa was relieved. ‘‘The last thing I want is trouble for him. He’s just so nice.’’ Louisa almost said ‘‘wonderful’’ but caught herself.

  ‘‘I daresay you’ve already begun to fall for him.’’

  Louisa tossed one of her pillows across the room. It landed on Annie’s bed, and soon it was thrown back. ‘‘Okay, if it’s an all-out pillow fight you want . . .’’

  ‘‘No, we best keep quiet. Dawdi and Mammi don’t need to be awakened, ya know.’’

  Stifling the temptation, Louisa hugged the pillow. ‘‘I need to get something off my chest while I’m thinking of it.’’

  Annie giggled just a little. ‘‘Now what?’’

  ‘‘You talk in your sleep, did you know?’’

  ‘‘I don’t!’’

  ‘‘Yep . . . and you answer questions when I ask them, too, while you’re sleeping.’’

  ‘‘Louisa Stratford . . . there oughta be a law against such things. Is there? I mean in the English world?’’

  Louisa couldn’t stop grinning. ‘‘No laws prohibiting the questioning of an unconscious person, nope.’’

  Annie was trying to contain her laughter, trying her best not to awaken her elderly relatives. ‘‘Okay, one more thing before we call it a night,’’ Louisa said.

  ‘‘Jah, and we better, ’cause those cows will need milking at four-thirty, no matter.’’

  ‘‘Here it is. You’re a coffin sleeper, Annie.’’

  ‘‘A what?’’

  ‘‘You look totally dead in bed.’’

  ‘‘What on earth does that mean?’’ Annie asked, her voice higher pitched than usual.

  ‘‘Legs straight out . . . your hands on your stomach.’’ Louisa stopped to catch her breath, because she, too, was holding back a wave of hilarity. And not being too successful at it.

  ‘‘So . . . you gawk at me when I’m unconscious?’’

  ‘‘No,’’ Louisa said. ‘‘It’s just if I wake up and look over at you, I see your coffin pose.’’

  Annie shook her head, her hand over her mouth.

  ‘‘If you think that’s funny, listen to this,’’ Louisa said.

  ‘‘One of my mother’s cousins had an interesting situation happen when her husband died. I don’t remember his name, but let’s call him Jack, to keep it simple. Anyway, Jack’s kids and stepkids were each jockeying for a portion of his ashes. So they were divided up in equal parts, and the undertaker advised them to ‘puff out the remains with fireplace ashes,’ so there was enough to go around.’’

  ‘‘Well, for pity’s sake!’’

  ‘‘Yeah, have you ever heard anything so weird?’’

  ‘‘I don’t even know anyone who’s been cremated. I think it’s just awful, don’t you?’’ Annie fell silent. Louisa wondered if she might be ready to go to sleep, but soon she heard Annie moving about in her bed. ‘‘I wonder if the Lord God will be able to find all of Jack’s ashes on Resurrection Day,’’ Annie said softly.

  Louisa had never thought of that. ‘‘Do you honestly believe everything in the Bible?’’

  ‘‘Well, lots of folk must. I think my father does.’’

  ‘‘Lots of it is suspect, if you really think about it.’’

  ‘‘I’m tired,’’ Annie said suddenly.

  She doesn’t want to discuss this.

  ‘‘Send Muffin back to me,’’ said Louisa.

  ‘‘He’s a coffin sleeper, too—look!’’ Annie said.

  Bounding out of bed, Louisa went to see her cat in the glow of the moon. ‘‘Oh, you’re right. Wow.’’ Muffin was lying on his back, with his forepaws curled in the air and his hind legs stretched straight out.

  ‘‘Do you think cats understand English?’’ asked Annie.

  ‘‘Of course not.’’ Louisa hopped back into bed. ‘‘Good night, Annie.’’

  ‘‘Sleep well, Lou.’’

  With that, they settled down, but Louisa couldn’t stop thinking about Sam Glick, glad for the silly talk with Annie tonight, hoping to have toned down her own unexpected, even frightening, feelings for this really fantastic guy. Amish, at that. So now do I have to consider joining church with Annie?

  She knew the answer was a resounding negative. She had actually begun to tire of wearing this long-sleeved cotton nightgown to bed. At first it had been a novelty to hang out with Annie in matching ultramodest floor-length nighties during their talks. But it was enough to mirror Annie’s attire and hairstyle all day long. While sleeping, she much preferred to wear her satiny nightgown or her own pj’s, but that was food for thought for another night . . . if at all.

  I wonder what married Amishwomen wear to sleep.

  Here we go again, thought Ben. First thing in the morning— last thing at night.

  Annie was even starting to interrupt his nightly dreams. At least he was fairly certain the girl he often dreamed about was Annie, for she was every bit as pretty and as talkative.

  The stuff of dreams was evasive, and he couldn’t always remember the important details—a frustrating feeling. Yet he was fully persuaded something was lurking there, if not taunting him, on the edges of his consciousness, where he simply could not reach far enough to grasp.

  He thought now of the delicate hands of th
e girl in his dreams, as well as real-life Annie’s slight yet beautiful hands. The gentle, relaxed way she folded them in her lap as she rode next to him in the car . . . how her hand brushed her cheek while they were waiting to be served at the restaurant. Distracting things . . .

  She doesn’t want to see me again. . . .

  ‘‘Annie, Annie,’’ he said, heading to the kitchen for breakfast. ‘‘What have you done to me?’’

  Chapter 15

  The predicted blizzard swept into Paradise with such force even Preacher Zook was taken off guard by it. Prior to this storm, a good number of farmer friends had shared complaints about the inaccuracy of weather reports from Englischers, despite their access to radio and television forecasts based on the latest technology. Jesse much preferred the People’s shrewd predictions, which were rooted in their knowledge of the land. A man could tell a lot from his mules, who might lie on exposed terrain in full sun one day and stand the next day with their rumps against the wind, signaling a coming storm.

  It had taken Jesse and the boys nearly an hour, well before daybreak, to create a tunnel-like path from the back stoop to the barn door. Now Jesse watched Annie, minus her sidekick, emerge from the kitchen door bundled up like nobody’s business. Barbara’s doing, he thought, knowing his wife’s determination to still mother Annie whenever possible. Annie paused as if to investigate the size of the yard drifts, running her gloved hands along the tops of the waisthigh piles.

  Bands of blustery wind came each time Annie lifted her head while picking her way across the yard. The animals’ water tanks needed to be filled no matter the weather, and watching her come plodding out to help with chores amidst the gale of wind and white, Jesse had a sudden warm feeling for her.

  My one and only daughter . . .

  He had never forgotten the day her newborn cries pierced the stillness of the bedroom, the day this sweet infant joined his household. To think now there would be only one set of braids in his house, one small girl with her faceless dolls lined up beneath the bedroom window. That girl had grown into a young woman who possessed something of an artistic gift, as Barbara had pointed out on more than one occasion. Their Annie—with the determination of a man and the openness of the sky.

  Quickly, so as not to be caught staring, he darted back into the milk house.

  Why had she made such a fuss over who—sons or daughters—was most favored? Women were fine for marrying and birthing babies, but men were elected by the Lord God to lead the community of mortal saints. For Annie to have questioned him at all on this point irked him some, yet he would not allow her to know it.

  Truth was, he had managed to shield her from outpourings of disapproval by hiding the magazine featuring her art. Just what would she say to that if she knew?

  Regrettably, it would not be long before the People would hear of the contest award. He couldn’t keep the magazine from finding its way into the hands of a few good farmers who’d insisted on subscribing to an English periodical. And he couldn’t fault them. The Farm and Home Journal was a fine one, as he knew from reading its pages any chance he could. It was not his place to order those farmers to cease getting the magazine based on a mere art contest. Exposing my daughter . . .

  There had been plenty of other times when he’d attempted to protect someone from the potential of pain at their own hand, he recalled. Daniel Hochstetler for one. Zeke’s father kept coming to mind, even though Jesse wanted to put the unresolved issues to rest. In all truth, he did not believe the burden of blame for the loss of Isaac lay only on disobedient young Zeke, nor did Jesse view Daniel’s carelessness at having caused the puppy’s demise as the sole reason for the kidnapping. Daniel had been so distracted during his heated debate with Jesse, he’d accidentally rammed a hayfork into the quivering pet’s body. Young Isaac had sobbed his way through supper that crucial night.

  No, there had never been any doubt that Daniel’s defiance of the Holy One had resulted in the disappearance and eventual death of the man’s second son. Why the thing ate away at his thinking Jesse didn’t rightly know, but it did, and his pondering was an endless stream of irritation. He’d believed he’d known Daniel through and through, only to realize the man he had embraced as a true friend had been a fraud. Why else would a man of devout upbringing turn his back on the divine appointment?

  Sighing loudly, Jesse closed the lid on the cooler where milk was continually stirred by power from their bishopapproved air compressor. Now he could hear Annie’s voice, hers and Yonie’s, across the way, in the milking area. Their terse greeting reminded him that, of all his sons, Yonie had always been most tender to his sister. Until now.

  ‘‘Aren’t you and Mammi goin’ to the work frolic this Thursday?’’ Annie asked her mother some hours later.

  ‘‘Mammi’s under the weather,’’ Mamm replied. ‘‘So not this time.’’

  ‘‘Well, she didn’t look sick to me,’’ Annie replied, wondering if the blizzard had caused some depression. ‘‘What’s ailin’ her?’’

  ‘‘Lower back pains. She could scarcely get out of bed this morning.’’

  ‘‘Will she see the doctor?’’ Annie asked.

  ‘‘Oh, you know her. She puts it off as long as she can. Needs to have one foot in the grave, nearly, ’fore she’ll go.’’

  What’s really troubling Mammi? It wasn’t like her grandmother to complain one speck. Never, in fact, that Annie recalled.

  ‘‘Well, tell her I’ll take her to the doctor when she’s ready . . . once the roads clear some,’’ Annie offered, heading to the Dawdi Haus to read, as she often did on their off Sundays—‘‘ no church’’ days. Sometimes, though, they attended church in neighboring districts, since Daed was a preacher.

  ‘‘Right nice of you, Annie,’’ Mamm said, eyeing her more closely. ‘‘She’s growin’ older, just as we all are.’’

  Annie couldn’t help but think her mother was attempting to send a not-so-subtle message that she wished a replacement beau for Annie might hurry and show up.

  To Annie, the best sounds of winter were the stomping of boots in crusty snow and the scrunching of skate blades against hard silvery ice. Once the snowstorm blew itself out, Annie had taken Lou off to tromp through drifted pastureland and then skating on neighbor Lapp’s pond during the week.

  But today Annie was ready to help lay out an intricate ‘‘album patch’’ quilt with the womenfolk at her brother Abner’s house. Her sister-in-law Priscilla, who was fond of researching old quilt patterns, had discovered an old Zook family quilt stuck away in an attic. She declared up and down it had been made in the early 1920s, complete with hundreds, if not a thousand pieces.

  Louisa had been talking of Annie pouring her artistic inclination into quilt making, so despite oodles of snow, Annie was excited to take the sleigh out for the first time since the blizzard. ‘‘I hope the colors haven’t been decided on,’’ Annie told Lou as they strung the reins through the horse’s bridle.

  Lou laughed. ‘‘You think you’ll have much say in that, Miss Annie?’’

  ‘‘I can hope. After all, this one’s for my cousin Fran, who’s gettin’ close to marrying age.’’

  ‘‘Has anyone decided to make a quilt for you?’’ Lou looked at her with a sly grin.

  ‘‘Oh, you . . . don’t you know better than that?’’ No one knew of her having seen Ben but Lou, who had been sworn to secrecy, especially because Annie had vowed to herself she would never go down that path again. Going with the likes of Ben Martin. What was I thinking?

  Yet she felt terribly susceptible to him, wishing to know him better, longing for the things she saw in his face. His eyes seemed to open up vast woodlands to her. No, it was the sky . . . or the sea, or something she knew he possessed. Was it merely his Englishness? She didn’t believe so, yet, irrational as it was, she longed to be with him.

  Years back, she had also felt stirrings of affection for Rudy Esh, but this was not akin to that. Something far different was drawing her.
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  Annie knew with conviction where her thinking should be in regard to Ben. As wonderful as she believed him to be, she dared not let her heart beat only for him.

  She rehearsed their good-byes that lovely night once again, pushing down the keyed-up feelings she had experienced then. He wanted the promise of another meeting.

  ‘‘I hope this get-together with the women puts some zip back into you,’’ Lou said, changing the topic back to where they’d begun.

  ‘‘Well, look at you talk. I haven’t seen you drawing much anymore, Lou. Why’s that?’’

  ‘‘I’ve put my art on hold for you.’’

  Annie couldn’t help but frown. ‘‘You mean it?’’

  ‘‘Why not, silly?’’

  ‘‘I can’t let you do that.’’

  ‘‘Hey, my coming has caused you enough nuisance. So postponing my work is all right with me.’’

  ‘‘It’s awful nice of you, Lou, but—’’

  ‘‘No ‘buts.’ That passion can wait.’’

  Annie climbed into the sleigh, amazed. ‘‘I don’t know what to say.’’

  ‘‘Say: ‘Sure, that’s cool, Lou.’ ’’

  Annie laughed. ‘‘You’re such a Schpundi—a nut!’’

  ‘‘Look in the mirror . . . er, I mean . . . oh, you know.’’

  Annie picked up the reins, looking fondly at her friend. ‘‘All righty. Let’s go and use our artists’ eyes to lay out a perty quilt for Fran.’’

  Lou tucked the lap robes around her. ‘‘Are purples and yellows allowed in the same quilt?’’

  ‘‘Well, if reds and purples are, why not?’’

  ‘‘I haven’t seen yellow or white used in any of the quilts here, though.’’

  ‘‘Mammi Zook says those aren’t such good choices . . . the other deeper colors run into them when washed.

  ‘‘Makes sense,’’ Lou said.

  They were off to Annie’s sister-in-law’s place on another gray sort of day. Not a soul could possibly see a shadow on the snow that spread itself out in all directions. She wondered if there would be a moon tonight. Even a hazy one, as she often saw during winter nights, would be nice.