The Englisher

by Beverly Lewis

  Will Ben look up at its muted radiance over knoll and woods? And will he think of me?

  When they arrived, Annie noticed a few buggies parked in the side yard. Highly unusual to cut out and piece a quilt as a group, she thought, assuming Fran and her mother were simply wanting fellowship at this bleak time of year. How nice of Priscilla to open her house for this.

  Once inside, Annie took a deep breath and peered down at the choice of colors Fran had already picked for the wedding quilt. Nothing out of the ordinary—plum, reds, blues, and touches of orange. In keeping with her color scheme, no doubt.

  ‘‘What ’bout different combinations?’’ Annie suggested.

  ‘‘Fran’s favorites are these here,’’ Priscilla replied, her black apron tied loosely to cover her round middle. ‘‘Besides, how many colors do ya want?’’

  A rainbow full, she thought. No need to speak her mind, though. Priscilla and the others had no idea Annie longed for things she ought not to.

  A little more than a handful of women worked to piece together the blocks, creating the small nine-patch squares— twenty-five larger squares in all—set against an even larger gray background, and a plum-colored border, hemmed in the same dreary hue as the middle block.

  She didn’t quite know why it plagued her, this urgency to recreate the pattern. Perhaps if Lou hadn’t brought up the possibility earlier. That, and if she weren’t so headstrong herself. At any rate, Annie resigned herself to Fran and her mother’s plan of action. Rightly so.

  Her mind wandered back to Mamm’s insistence that she and Lou attend without her. ‘‘Mammi and I, we’ll fill the gas lamps and lanterns while you’re gone,’’ her mother had replied, which seemed odd. Mamm wasn’t one to miss out on some good fellowship. Annie suspected Mamm of being overly worried, truth be known. Mamm was a brooder . . . and this was another case in point.

  At the moment there was abundant chatter around the worktable. One of Fran’s aunts mentioned having heard a cousin of hers clear out in Wisconsin had cut her knuckle badly while drying a glass. ‘‘It broke apart right in her hands. Ever have that happen?’’

  Across the table, Fran’s mother nodded and made a little grunt.

  ‘‘Well, anyways, both a nerve and muscle were cut and six stitches were needed,’’ the woman continued.

  Several low oohs were heard, and the woman next to the first began talking. ‘‘An Englischer friend of mine from Shipshewana, some of yous may remember, well, she and her husband stopped in at Wannacup for some hot cocoa last week sometime, and here came—least she said this was true—a Plain fella with two perty girls, one on each arm. And neither one was his sister.’’

  This brought a round of ahs and a few curious smiles.

  Annie liked the table talk. It was one of the reasons she enjoyed work frolics, although typically they were canning or quilting bees. So many stories to hear. Sometimes, between the work and the talk, she imagined drawing a collage, a wall hanging of sorts portraying all the images of things women shared round the worktable.

  ‘‘And listen to this,’’ another woman close to Annie said. ‘‘One of Zeke’s cousins over in Honey Brook heard from Daniel Hochstetlers, who’ve been living on a farm up near Wingham, Ontario, of all things.’’

  ‘‘Oh?’’ said Fran. ‘‘Wonder what took them so far away?’’

  The woman could only shake her head. ‘‘Don’t know, really. Only heard that Mary died in her sleep sometime recently.’’

  ‘‘Zeke’s mother?’’ said one.

  ‘‘Ain’t it just awful?’’ said another.

  Annie’s heart sank. Zeke’s—and Isaac’s—long-lost parents . . . chastised yet again by the Almighty? ‘‘Wonder if Hochstetlers have gone fancy,’’ Annie said.

  ‘‘Well, seems so.’’

  A weighty pause followed. Then Annie filled the silence with her words. ‘‘Could it be the nickname caught up with them?’’

  ‘‘Ichabod,’’ someone whispered.

  Lou looked at Annie, frowned, and went back to her slow stitching, making Annie feel awful for speaking her mind yet again.

  ‘‘Daniel oughta be a lesson to us all,’’ said Fran’s mother suddenly. ‘‘First Isaac’s kidnapping . . . now the man’s own wife, dead too soon. What a shame.’’

  ‘‘A word to the wise is sufficient,’’ said another.

  Annie forced her eyes back on her work. So Zeke’s family had been located after all this time . . . if the Amish grapevine was accurate. And his poor mother dead.

  She felt she must talk to Esther about this. Wouldn’t Zeke be comforted to hear something—anything—but also terribly grieved at his mother’s passing? Annie wondered what Zeke’s reaction would be to such news. To put it mildly, Esther’s husband was truly a conundrum, not only to her, but to all the People.

  Chapter 16

  Annie had not come to Julia’s attic to discuss bygone days, but the past certainly seemed to weigh on Esther’s mind today. During the course of their conversation, Annie was surprised to discover she and Zeke had talked only minimally through the years about Isaac’s kidnapping.

  ‘‘Zeke’s kept it to himself,’’ Esther had said out of the blue. ‘‘Sometimes I wonder just how much he remembers, really.’’

  ‘‘I s’pose things would become hazy over time,’’ Annie replied, watching Esther stroke her baby. Essie Ann squeezed her tiny lips into a pucker, then relaxed them again into a faint smile.

  ‘‘He’s had nightmares . . . well, I don’t know so much now, since I’m not home with him.’’ Esther avoided Annie’s eyes.

  Annie had hoped Esther and Zeke might have heard of Mary Hochstetler’s death directly from Zeke’s father, but since it seemed Esther was in the dark, Annie forged ahead. ‘‘I don’t like to be a bearer of bad news, but I heard something awful sad at Priscilla’s frolic. Mammi Rosa said word came from one of Zeke’s cousins . . .’bout Daniel Hochstetlers.’’

  ‘‘Oh? That’s odd . . . no one’s heard from them for years—not even Zeke’s uncle, Preacher Moses. Not since after Zeke and I married, anyway. His folks have never even seen our children.’’ Esther’s voice quivered.

  ‘‘I hate to tell you this, truly I do, Essie.’’

  ‘‘Well, what the world.’’ Esther frowned, her eyes searching Annie’s. ‘‘Did Daniel pass away?’’

  ‘‘Not Zeke’s father . . . his mother.’’

  Esther’s eyes clouded from blue to somber gray. ‘‘Ach, such terrible news.’’ She lifted Essie Ann up close to her heart, holding the wee babe there, whispering something against the infant’s peachy head.

  ‘‘Awful sorry,’’ Annie murmured.

  The small room felt dismally devoid of light, as though an invisible hand had blocked off the sun from the dormer windows.

  Annie felt she ought not say another word. She held her breath, sad for the anguish on Esther’s face.

  At last, when Annie felt sure her friend might not speak again . . . that Annie might simply have to say her whispered good-byes and slip out of the makeshift bedroom, right then, Esther raised her head. ‘‘This will bring such sorrow to Zeke,’’ she said.

  ‘‘I’m sure’’ was all Annie could eke out.

  ‘‘You see, he was always convinced his mother loved him . . . even though she was forced to take her husband’s side all durin’ Zeke’s growing-up years.’’

  ‘‘Take sides on what?’’

  Esther looked away again. When she spoke, her words were faltering. ‘‘Mary Hochstetler . . . believed she must follow her husband’s approach to Zeke by not interfering. So, in a way, they both belittled him. Zeke once told me the ridicule was near endless.’’ She sighed. ‘‘It’s one of the reasons I think I must’ve married him. I felt sad for the way he was raised . . . with no real sense of parental acceptance. His father clearly hated him.’’

  ‘‘Hate’s a strong word.’’

  ‘‘Even so, Daniel did put the blame firmly on Zeke’s head.’’<
br />
  ‘‘For Isaac?’’

  Esther nodded forlornly. ‘‘And hearin’ of Mary’s death, well, I just don’t know what it’ll do. . . .’’

  Annie wished the news might soften Zeke’s heart toward his wife, but she wouldn’t hold out much hope of that.

  ‘‘Does your Laura know about her uncle Isaac?’’ Annie asked.

  ‘‘She’s never to know—Zeke is adamant on that.’’

  ‘‘I understand.’’ Annie felt herself frowning hard.

  ‘‘Well, lookin’ at you, I’m not so sure you do.’’

  ‘‘No . . . no, I don’t mean to complicate things.’’ Annie shook her head, pushing away her own happy memories of the boy.

  ‘‘What Zeke says goes.’’

  ‘‘Jah . . .’’ Annie wanted to cry. ‘‘I want you happy again. Honest.’’

  Neither of them spoke for a time. Then Esther looked right at her, her eyes pained. ‘‘Happiness is hard to pin down. My joy comes from the Lord Jesus now. He’s my everything. . . .’’

  Annie nodded sympathetically, feeling awkward at Esther’s too-familiar remarks about God. ‘‘Would you want me to say something to Daed? Have him break the news of his mother’s death to Zeke?’’

  ‘‘Jah, in fact, Julia says your father’s takin’ Zeke to the mud sale tomorrow. Maybe Preacher Jesse’s the best one to tell Zeke. But it’s in the dear Lord’s hands, that’s for sure.’’

  Annie rose and kissed the sleeping baby’s forehead, then touched Esther’s back lightly. ‘‘Take good care, Essie.’’

  ‘‘You do the same.’’

  Moving slowly toward the door of her old sanctuary, Annie turned and looked back at her friend with her darling baby. She stood in the doorway a moment longer, her old yearnings building with each breath as she allowed her eyes to take in every inch of her former art studio.

  I miss this place!

  She let her gaze linger in the far corner, and something welled up in her as she spotted her framed painting all wrapped in brown paper, part of her secret still secure.

  ‘‘ ’Bye, for now,’’ she said, turning to leave.

  Louisa made good use of her time while Annie did her regular Friday work routine at Julia’s. Making herself scarce in a private corner of the sunroom area, adjoining the kitchen, she plugged in her laptop and began catching up on email. First her art students with more than a few questions, then other friends who continually bugged her about ‘‘coming back to civilization,’’ and one lone message from her mother, who urged her to ‘‘come home for Easter, won’t you, dear?’’

  Cringing, she felt as if she could actually hear her mother’s voice.

  I still haven’t been gone long enough.

  Caught up on her email, she sat and stared out the window at the snow-covered yard and trees, wondering if she dare contact Trey. Her response to his repeated overtures was definitely overdue, so when she checked to see if he was online, she was relieved that he was. ‘‘Better this way than by phone,’’ she whispered.

  Louisa knew now that continuing their relationship was pointless. Not only had she begun to feel differently about Trey and his interest in her, she was in the process of reformatting her view of the world, her life in particular.

  Clicking on his screen name in her IM buddy address book, she got the conversation going.

  Hey!

  Hey back!

  I’ve been thinking. . . .

  Yikes! That’s scary, Louisa.

  I’m serious. I can’t meet you either here or in London.

  She waited a full minute before she saw the indication that he was writing a response. She leaned forward to read it:

  Come on, girl, you know you want to.

  I thought I made that clear on the phone last time.

  Well, reconsider.

  Don’t be mad. Just please understand.

  She felt stronger than ever. This was the right thing . . . letting him know once and for all.

  Trey again:

  You’re kidding, right?

  No.

  I want to see you again. I can change your mind. . . .

  No. Gotta go.

  Wait . . . got power where you are? I’ll call your cell.

  She had power all right. She’d recharged again here at Julia’s and was using her Palm to connect her laptop to the Internet. But she didn’t want to hear Trey’s voice. Was this Sam’s influence? Had she fallen for him like Annie said? No, she merely looked up to Sam . . . and looked down on her past. There was no questioning her resolve where Trey was concerned. He was not in the landscape of her future.

  Don’t call me. Bye! She typed it quickly and signed off.

  All guys aren’t like this. She thought of Sam again, hoping she was right. Yet how could she possibly know? She knew one thing: she was weary of the modern dating scene. The Plain culture had it right. You courted. You married, settled down . . . had a bunch of kids.

  Whoa, Mamma, am I losing it or what?

  The realization that she had just slammed the door on her first romantic interest overwhelmed her. And, of course, there was no going back to Michael. She was guy-less for the first time in years. At least, not a man out in the real world. . . .

  Suddenly sad, she heard Julia’s voice. ‘‘Louisa, are you in there?’’

  ‘‘Uh-huh,’’ she managed to say, through her sudden tears.

  Julia appeared, looking prim as always, her long-sleeved white blouse open slightly at the neck, and her navy blue corduroy jumper brushing her legs at midcalf. ‘‘Aw, Louisa . . . what’s-a-matter?’’

  She couldn’t speak now. That always happened if someone paid too much attention when she was losing it.

  ‘‘Well, bless your heart.’’ Julia tiptoed over and pulled up a chair.

  ‘‘It’s not my heart . . . just my dumb head.’’ Louisa wiped her eyes, glad for zero mascara. She sputtered, ‘‘I admit to being foolish—I’ve made some stupid mistakes. That ever happen to you?’’ She doubted she was making sense.

  ‘‘Oh my, yes.’’ Julia seemed to understand.

  Louisa looked at her and saw the depth of compassion in her eyes. She felt as if she’d come to a fork in the road, made the turn, and refused to look back.

  Julia’s only a year older than me, but much wiser. . . .

  ‘‘I wish I’d come to Paradise earlier . . . when I was, oh, sixteen. I might’ve spared myself many things.’’

  Julia nodded. ‘‘Plenty of folk have said the same. There is a kind of peace here. Some want to soak it up but return home unchanged. Others attempt to box it up, only to lose it along the way. Others embrace it—not only the peace, but the Peacemaker himself.’’

  ‘‘Who?’’ She knew all too well whom Julia was referring to. She had heard similar statements from her deceased aunt Margaret, who talked about Christ as her ‘‘dearest friend.’’

  Julia tilted her head, a glow of a smile on her face.

  ‘‘Well, some call Him the Light of the World, others call Him Redeemer and Friend.’’

  ‘‘No more male friends would be great,’’ Louisa said. She didn’t consider Sam just any male, of course. He was the cliche d special person. One of the most important to her at the present time, aside from Annie.

  ‘‘You’ve been hurt,’’ Julia said, extending a hand.

  ‘‘More than once. . . .’’ She sighed. ‘‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about God and . . . just stuff.’’

  ‘‘Well, I’m here . . . whenever.’’

  The house seemed unusually quiet for as many young children as were present, though Annie and Esther were no doubt keeping them occupied.

  ‘‘What about right now?’’ asked Louisa.

  Julia folded her hands. ‘‘Sure,’’ she said softly.

  ‘‘So . . . let’s see. How do I start?’’

  The room was still. ‘‘Just speak your heart’’ came the gentle words.

  Even though Louisa had been waiting for this moment
, she felt nearly tongue-tied, so many thoughts swirled through her head. ‘‘To begin with, what’s your take on faith exactly? How does it start . . . and where does it lead?’’

  Julia straightened in her chair. ‘‘I can tell you what I’ve learned . . . what I know in the deep of my heart. Faith is trusting in a person.’’ Julia stopped a moment. ‘‘Take, for instance, when my little girl wants to jump off the back step and into Irvin’s arms. She knows instinctively that he will catch her. There is no hesitation in her mind. But she has to make the jump . . . take the first step in making that happen, I suppose you might say.’’

  ‘‘So faith depends partly on you . . . not just God?’’

  ‘‘Yes, Louisa. Faith is a divine gift, but it is also based on evidence.’’

  ‘‘Found in books like the Bible, right?’’ Louisa recalled Aunt Margaret’s comments on this.

  ‘‘I’d say the Bible is the best source.’’

  She wished she might have been more exposed to religion while growing up. Margaret’s belief system and life was such a shadowy memory. ‘‘Do you think there is any correlation between faith and love?’’

  Julia turned at the sound of her children coming into the room. ‘‘Why, sure,’’ she said, pausing to give her attention to Molly, who was pointing to an ‘‘owie’’ on her thumb. She scooped the two-year-old into her arms and carried her back to where she had been sitting. ‘‘Simply put, faith is trust in a person, and love is a plan of action. It may be described as a feeling, a commitment . . . a decision. But in the end, it’s a person you belong to . . . a person you are devoted to, through thick and thin.’’

  ‘‘So love and faith are similar?’’

  Julia kissed Molly’s hand. ‘‘The power behind creation is really very personal. You are aware of this, Louisa, being an artist. God’s power and His infinite love go hand in hand. We matter to Him. Our lives have meaning. I’ve chosen to live in recognition of this amazing power . . . this love.’’