“None of us sent for him,” Leah said.
Eli stroked the whiskers on his chin. “I wonder how he knew about it.”
The Amish rarely involved outsiders in their troubles. What happened in the community normally stayed in the community. Their ancestors had learned through years of persecution to be distrustful of outsiders. It was a lesson that had not been forgotten. “I’ll see what I can find out,” Joann said.
The sheriff had left the men and moved to examine the charred side of the school. He squatted on his heels and used his pen to move aside the remains of partially burned book covers and bindings. He lifted an aluminum can out of the ashes. Joann stopped beside him and withdrew her pen and notebook from her pocket. She flipped it open. “Sheriff, have there been other attacks on Amish property?”
The moment she asked the question, she remembered the letter they had received from an Amish farmer whose hay crop had been burned.
The sheriff stood and pushed his trooper’s hat back with one finger. “Nothing that I’ve heard about.”
He glanced toward the group of men clustered at the far end of the school where Bishop Zook had just arrived. “You’re more likely than I am to hear about something like this. The Amish don’t usually call in the law. Makes my job harder sometimes, but I accept that your ways are your own.”
“We appreciate that, Sheriff.” Should she mention the letter? Like many of the notes they received, it hadn’t included a name or return address.
“Could you run a reminder in the paper that people should report anything suspicious to the law? It’s part of being a good neighbor to watch out for each other.”
Perhaps the man would read the notice and contact the sheriff himself and she needn’t say anything about it. “I’m sure Otis will agree to that. How did you know about today’s incident?”
“I received an anonymous tip. It was a woman’s voice. She said to hurry or someone was going to get hurt out here.” He placed the can in a plastic bag.
“That sounds like a threat.” She glanced around, reassured by the presence of only her Amish friends and their families.
“I thought so, too. I took it seriously.”
Roman came to stand beside Joann. “Sheriff, the men want to know if they can start cleaning up.”
“Tell them I need them to hold off until I have my crime scene people out to look this over. They should be finished by the end of the day. Have there been any problems in your local church group? Any disagreement between members?”
Joann spoke up quickly. “Our brethren would not do this no matter what kind of disagreements they were having.”
Nick shrugged. “People are people. I won’t rule out anyone. How are you doing, Roman?”
“Goot.”
“Is the arm better?”
Roman looked at his sling. “Not much.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. The jury found Brendan Smith guilty of vehicular assault yesterday. His attorney told me that he asked you to speak at the sentencing next month, but you declined.”
A cold look came over Roman’s face. His voice shook as he spoke. “I have forgiven him. It is your law that seeks to punish him. His fate is in God’s hands.”
Joann had never seen Roman so angry. “Who is Brendan Smith?”
“He’s the young man who struck Roman with his pickup. His attorney was hoping that Roman would speak on Brendan’s behalf, talk about Amish forgiveness and all that. He was hoping it might persuade the judge to go easy on Smith. He’s facing jail time.”
The sheriff rubbed a hand over his jaw as he looked at the scorched building. “Quite a coincidence that we have a fire at an Amish school the next night, isn’t it?”
Joann glanced from Roman to the sheriff. “What are you saying?”
“That I’m not a big believer in coincidences.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Take care, Roman, Miss Yoder. I’ll be in touch.”
As the sheriff walked away, Joann turned to Roman. “Why would you refuse such a request?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He stalked off, leaving her wondering just how much hurt and anger he still carried inside. Forgiveness was the only way to heal such sorrow.
* * *
Roman couldn’t help wondering if this was somehow his fault. Was it retaliation by the friends of Brendan Smith? If he had agreed to speak on Brendan’s behalf, would the school have been spared? He was deeply troubled by the idea.
As the sheriff marked off the school with yellow tape, Eli Imhoff stood on the back of his wagon to address the crowd. Bishop Zook stood at his side along with several men who were also members of the school board. Eli said, “We will hold our meeting here. It will not take long.”
The people moved to gather around them. The Bishop spoke first. “Let us give thanks to our heavenly father that no one was injured, and let us pray for those who tried to carry out this grievous deed. May God show them mercy and the error of their ways. Amen.”
The crowd, standing with their heads bowed, muttered, “Amen.”
“The first order of business is to clean up the building and assess what needs to be torn down and what can be repaired,” Eli said. “The sheriff will let us know how soon we can do that. Once we know what needs to be done to make the school safe, we will set a date to start rebuilding.”
“We can put an announcement in the paper,” Joann said. “We will need it by Thursday morning in order to make Friday’s edition.”
Bishop Zook nodded. “That can be done. I will send notices to our neighboring churches so that they may make a plea for donations at this coming Sunday’s preaching. Please spread the word about our need. And do not worry, Leah, the school will be as good as new come the first day of class in the fall.”
Eli looked at Roman. “Please tell your uncle that I will be in to see him as soon as we know what books must be replaced.”
They went on to discuss other issues. Roman took careful notes. This was a story everyone needed to know about.
On the drive home, Joann sat quietly beside him. Roman wasn’t up to making small talk or teasing her. She seemed to feel the same way. About a half-mile out of town, she finally spoke. “Did you tell the sheriff about the letter we received?”
The fact that there had been two fires on Amish property had struck him as odd, too. “Nee, did you?”
“I was afraid to, but now I wonder if I was wrong.”
“What’s done is done. The school will be repaired.”
“I know, but what if this happens again and we could have prevented it?”
“Romans 12:19, Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”
“You’re right. We must leave it in God’s hands.” She didn’t say anything else, but he could see she was troubled.
Back at the office, he told Otis what had happened. Otis shook his head sadly. “We shall do what we can for the school. I would like to see your notes when you’re finished with them. I will want to add something about this to our magazine this month.”
Roman struggled through the afternoon to type up his notes for Otis to review. Typing with one hand was a laborious process that he was sure he would never master. Across the room, Joann made quick work of her notes and handed them to Otis before Roman had finished a single page.
She came and stood in front of Roman’s desk. She reached for his notebook. “I can help.”
He slapped his hand down on it to prevent her taking it.
Annoyance flashed across her face. “I was only offering to type your notes for you.”
“I can do my own work.”
“I can do it faster.”
Like he needed to be reminded of that. “I must learn to do it myself. You won’t always be around to help.”
“That’s for certain,” she said cryptically. She left and went back to work at her desk. When it was time to leave, Roman was glad she had her cart to drive.
He wasn’t up for company.
He learned when he arrived home that evening that news of the fire had preceded him. When he entered his father’s house, he found his father and brother seated at the kitchen table. Faron Martin sat with them.
Roman’s mother stood by the sink dabbing the corner of her eye with her apron. “Who would do this terrible thing?”
“Only God knows,” his father said with a sad shake of his head.
Andrew looked at Roman. “Is it true the sheriff questioned you?”
“He spoke to everyone who was there.”
“Nick Bradley is a good man. He will get to the bottom of this,” Marie Rose declared.
Roman poured himself a cup of coffee and took a seat at the table. “Daed, do you know of a fellow on Bent Tree Road that had his haystacks burned recently?”
“I heard something about it from Rueben Beachy just yesterday. Why?”
“Did the fella know who started the fire?”
Menlo shook his head. “If he did, he didn’t mention it.”
“It seems like an odd coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Ja, it does. Andrew, Faron, I reckon we can get a few more board cuts before supper.” Menlo set his coffee cup in the sink, put on his hat and walked out the door. Andrew followed him.
Faron said, “Roman, could I speak to you outside?”
“Sure.” Now what? Was this about Esta? Roman took a last sip of his coffee and got to his feet even though this was a conversation he was sure he didn’t want to have.
When the two men were out of earshot of the house, Faron said, “I reckon you should know that I’ve been stepping out with Esta.”
So Joann had been telling the truth. “I heard something like that.”
“I didn’t mean to go behind your back while you were laid up. Esta said there’s nothing serious between you. If that isn’t the case, you should tell me now and I’ll stop seeing her.”
Roman was surprised by how little it hurt to know Esta didn’t see him as a serious suitor. He’d been foolish to think she would find a one-armed man a good catch. “Danki, Faron, I reckon Esta is the one to decide that.”
“All right then. Just wanted to set that straight. Didn’t want any bad blood between us, what with my working for your dad and all.” He held out his hand.
Roman shook it. “How’s the job going?”
“It’s the best work I could have asked for. Your father is a good teacher and a patient man, but I don’t think your brother is very happy that he took me on.”
“Andrew will get over it. Give him time.”
“I hope that’s true. What about you? How do you like working for your uncle?”
“It’s not what I expected, but I’m starting to like it.” To his amazement, he realized his words were the truth. He was starting to enjoy the job. Reporting and sharing information with the Amish community was important if they were to stay connected and strong in their commitment to care for each other.
As Faron went to finish his work, Roman began walking down the lane thinking about Esta and Faron. Were they meant for each other? If so, who was the woman God had in mind for him? He couldn’t think of anyone. Before long, his thoughts turned to Joann and her conflicting feelings about reporting another fire to the sheriff. He shared the same feelings. What was the right thing to do?
It was a fundamental part of his faith to live separate from the world. Yet, like Joann, he remained uncertain in his heart as to what he should do.
He didn’t realize until he was at the fence to Woolly Joe’s pasture that he had been headed toward the lake. Well, why not? It was a good place to ponder the rights and wrongs of life. Maybe the Happy Angler had written him another note.
Cheered by the thought, he made his way into the woods and down to the small clearing on the shore. To his disappointment, there wasn’t a message on the log. He wondered if his last letter had been found. He wanted the Happy Angler to know his gift had been appreciated.
Roman sat down and stared out at the placid lake. High cliffs topped with lush trees made up the north shore. He caught sight of a lone doe walking along the rim briefly before vanishing into the trees. Barn swallows swooped across the surface of the water catching insects and taking drinks while zipping past the surface. Their agility was amazing.
“Little swallows you fly away but return each spring on the very same day.”
With a start, he realized he’d just spoken the beginning of a poem. He took out his notebook and balanced it on the log. “Where do you go when you leave this home? What draws you afar, what makes you roam?”
While he was groping for his pen, his notebook fell off the log. The calm peacefulness that the evening brought his soul vanished. Frustration hit him like the kick of a mule. Would he ever learn to manage with just one arm?
Why him? Why had he been crippled? Because some foolish Englischer had one too many beers before getting behind the wheel of his truck? Where was the justice in that?
He looked to heaven and shouted, “Why me? What am I to learn from this?” The birds he’d been watching scattered.
He closed his eyes and listened, but only the croaking of frogs and the drone of insects answered him.
God wasn’t speaking to him tonight. He’d just have to muddle on. He leaned down to pick up the notebook and noticed a row of pebbles on the ground. They had been laid in the shape of an arrow. It pointed toward the log. He stood and looked over the gray bark. There was a knothole in the side of the log he hadn’t noticed before. Something shiny caught his eye.
He reached in and pulled out a glass canning jar. Inside, he saw a folded piece of notebook paper. He smiled, opened the jar and took out the note to read it.
Chapter Nine
Dear Friendly Fisherman,
If you are reading this, you have found my makeshift mailbox. The last letter you left had blown into the water. If you hadn’t been wise enough to put it in a plastic bag, it would have been gone forever. I didn’t want to risk losing one of your notes again, so I came up with this idea.
I’m humbled and happy that my small gift has been of value. You won’t bore me if you’d like to talk about your troubles. I’ve been told that troubles shared are troubles halved. Here in this beautiful spot, they do seem less important. I’ll share my story with you and hope you feel free to return the favor.
I had plans to buy a house of my own soon. It’s been a longtime dream of mine, but recently I lost my job. I can’t afford the house now. The new job I accepted doesn’t pay as well. To top it off, I have to work with someone I don’t much care for. He has made it plain that he doesn’t care for me, either.
I’m determined to make the best of it, and I hope I can one day call him a friend. Until that time, I shall come here often to refresh my soul and regain some perspective. If I can’t do that, I can sit here and imagine tossing him headfirst into the cold water. What a scare that would give the poor fish.
I shouldn’t complain about my circumstances. My troubles are small compared to some. After all, how bad can it be if I have time for fishing? They only seem big because I can’t see beyond them.
There, I’ve unburdened myself to you. I expect your troubles are worse than mine and you’re laughing at me. Actually, I do feel better for having shared them with you.
The sky is overcast this morning, but I can imagine the colors of the sunset you saw. Were there clouds in the west? Were they fiery gold and rose pink? From this spot, all the colors must have been reflected in the lake. Two sunsets for the price of one. That’s a good bargain in anyone’s book.
I didn’t fish today. The wind was in the north. Another reminder that we are not in charge, God is. I hope the fishing is good for you. You might want to try an orange, bottom-bouncing hopper to tempt a big old walleye that lives in the deep part of the lake. I had him once, but he broke my line.
I must close now, I’ve run out of paper.
P.S. I must add that I’m a single woman. (I
almost didn’t.) I’ll understand if you choose not to write again. Please know that I have enjoyed your letters, and thank you again for returning my pole.
Your Happy Amish Angler
A woman!
Roman certainly hadn’t expected that. A single Amish woman, to boot. Who was she? Did he know her? Was she a grandmother or someone’s little sister?
No, the note said she had planned to buy a house. That was an uncommon thing for an Amish maid. Single women past marrying age sometimes lived alone, but most often, they lived with family members the way Joann did. If they desired to live by themselves, their father or other male members of the family would see to it that they were given a suitable dwelling such as a dawdy-haus as he lived in. He didn’t know of any woman who had purchased her own house. His letterwriting friend was one very unusual woman.
Oddly, it did feel as if she were a friend, as if she were offering kind advice and gently steering him toward a better path. What would she think of him if she knew who he was?
“She would probably think I’m a poor, pitiful excuse for a man,” he muttered as a wave of self-pity hit him.
He glanced at the letter again. No, she’d likely toss him headfirst into the lake and tell him to quit feeling sorry for himself.
Roman folded the letter in half and tucked it in the pocket of his shirt. To own a house was a fine dream. It was a shame she had to give it up. It took a good person to make the best of a bad situation and work toward creating friendship where none existed. Roman knew a moment of shame for his treatment of Joann. He hadn’t tried to make friends with her. He gained delight in teasing her, in making her snap back at him. It wasn’t well done on his part.
Tomorrow, he would turn over a new leaf and be kinder to her. She was only trying to do her job. It wasn’t her fault that he was ill-suited to the work and found it so difficult.
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