Accidentally Amish

by Olivia Newport

  “What can Mr. Zimmerman do?” Anna asked.

  “He knows the road your father would take back from Irish Creek.”

  Lisbetli wailed from the other room.

  The fire burned low. Jakob examined the eastern sky for any hint of pink before deciding to put on more wood. His sense of time was gone, swallowed by catnaps he jerked out of without knowing whether he slept two minutes or twenty. Most of the night he was awake, partly in pain and partly on alert for the sounds of the forest around him. A squirrel’s scamper, a twig’s snap, the fluttering wings of a bird—it all made Jakob twitch. In the dark, he parsed every sound, making sure it belonged.

  At the sound of hooves approaching, Jakob straightened his back with a silent wince.

  A lone horse.

  It could carry a single Indian.

  The rhythm he heard was too rapid for the dark and getting louder.

  Jakob slithered into the woods behind him. There was no time to kick dirt on the fire or untie the horse.

  The hooves stopped. Someone dismounted and moved around the campsite.

  “Jakob?” a voice called.

  Jakob looked out from behind a tree to see Hans Zimmerman patting his horse’s neck on the other side of the fire.

  “Jakob? Are you here?”

  “Yes!” Jakob called back. “I’m here!” With an arm cradling his ribs, he moved into Hans’s view.

  “What happened?” Hans rushed forward to catch Jakob’s weight.

  Jakob shook his head. “First, you tell me why you’re looking for me in the middle of the night.”

  “Do you think you can ride?” Hans asked. “We have no time to spare.”

  “What happened, Hans?”

  “It is Verona.”

  “Daed! What’s wrong?” Anna cried when she saw her father.

  Jakob, clutching his ribs, waved her off. “How is your mother?”

  “She is not talking.”

  Maria threw herself at Jakob’s legs. “Are you going to make Mamm better?”

  Lisbetli screwed up her face and wailed. Christian handed her a wooden spoon, which she threw down, petulant.

  “She wants Mamm,” Anna said.

  “I want Mamm, too,” Maria said.

  Hans, coming in behind Jakob, peeled Maria off of Jakob’s legs and tipped his head toward the bedroom. “Go see her.”

  Jakob opened the door that had shielded the younger children from the sight of their mother. Closed off from the fire, the room was cold. Barbara sat on the edge of Verona’s bed, and as Jakob entered, she pulled a cloth out of a bucket of water, wrung it slightly, and laid it across her mother’s forehead. Then she moved out of the way, and Jakob took his daughter’s vigil post.

  “Verona, my love.” He spoke into her ear.

  Just when he thought she would not respond, she turned her head slightly, without opening her eyes. “Jakob?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  The effort of trying to speak consumed her breathing. “Survey?”

  “It’s finished,” he said. “We’ll have the papers soon.”

  “Sorry.” Her eyes opened to slits. She swallowed.

  Jakob moved the damp cloth to her chapped lips for a moment. “Shh. Just rest.”

  “I cannot go.” Her chest rose and fell in shallow rolls. “Promise me you will.”

  “We will wait till you are well.”

  She shook her head. “No. This is the end for me.”

  “Don’t say that, Verona.” Jakob laid his hand along her burning cheek.

  “Love again, my love.” Her eyes closed. “Don’t be alone.” Her chest fell and did not rise.

  When he sketched his dream, it never occurred to Jakob to include a cemetery.

  Jakob hired a wagon and, with Hans Zimmerman’s help, took the pine box to Irish Creek. He would be gone at least five days, but Mrs. Zimmerman knew his heart and took the children home with her. Jakob could not bring himself to leave Verona in Philadelphia behind a church whose teachings she did not believe. He would tend a fire as long as it took to thaw the land enough to dig. She must be buried on Amish land.

  Their land. The survey was a formality. It was only a matter of time before he could move his family to the home Verona wanted for them.

  By the time Jakob returned to Philadelphia, Lisbetli had been inconsolable for a week, her usual compliant disposition shattered by the absence of her mother. She clung to her father’s neck constantly, unwilling even to go to Barbara’s arms. The little girl slept only when exhaustion overwhelmed and never for long. Jakob slipped out in the mornings—sometimes to Lisbetli’s screams—to work at the tanyard, only to come home every night to a distraught toddler and a teenager with the face of a woman who knew pain. In a few days, Barbara would be fifteen. How could he ask her to mother her siblings? But how could he manage without her?

  Jakob knew what the coming weeks would bring. For a while, Amish families would stop by with food or an invitation for one child or another to play with their children. But they were all marking time, and there were not many families from their ship left in Philadelphia. The true goal was to leave the city, to claim their land, to forge settlements where they could live apart and unencumbered by conflict over their beliefs. Wasn’t that why they had come to the New World?

  The survey came in. Jakob breathed relief that the choice to bury Verona on Irish Creek was without regret.

  Love again, my love.

  Twenty-Two

  I’m sorry, Mr. Beiler, but the bank officers have determined it’s necessary to discontinue your line of credit.”

  Rufus squinted under his straw hat. This made no sense. “I wonder if there has been a mistake. Perhaps some confusion with another account.”

  The woman at the desk tossed her wavy black hair over one shoulder and made faces at her computer screen. “No, I’m sure it’s the correct account. Would you like to set up a payment schedule for the outstanding balance?”

  Rufus looked at her in confusion. He had opened his business account five years earlier when the Beilers first arrived in Colorado. A few months later, the bank extended him a small line of credit, and gradually over the years it grew with his business. Why would they suddenly withdraw it?

  “We can convert the balance to an unsecured signature loan for a term of forty-eight or sixty months.”

  “I’m sorry.” Rufus shook his head. “I don’t understand. Is there some concern about my payment history?”

  She pushed out her bottom lip and studied the screen again then clicked a couple of times on her keyboard. “The only information I have is that the line of credit is discontinued. You’ll have to talk to a bank officer if you want to know more.”

  “I do want to know more, please.” Rufus fixed his eyes on the back of the computer monitor that seemed to determine the woman’s statements.

  “Please have a seat.” She gestured to an imitation leather loveseat. “I’ll see who is available.”

  Rufus sat, stunned. This had to be a mistake. Without a business line of credit, he would not be able to pay his employees—or himself—between payments from clients on bigger jobs. He would not be able to bid on any jobs that required more cash up front than he had in the bank. The new housing development north of town would be off-limits to him. The happy owners of the home where he installed custom cabinetry had given his name to two friends building in the new construction area. Both wanted bids, but already they were anxious to work with Rufus. Both—especially in combination—would require considerable cash outlay up front. The most he could ask from the customers was half of what he needed for supplies. Without a line of credit, it would be impossible.

  Karl Kramer.

  It was no surprise when the woman returned and reported that no officers were available, and perhaps he would like to come back next Wednesday to discuss his options.

  No, he would not like to come back next Wednesday.

  Rufus stepped out into the harsh end-of-July sun and wiped swea
t from the hairline against his hat. In the heat, the weight of Karl’s scheme fell against him, making Rufus anxious for the shade of the buggy. He barely even patted Dolly’s face before taking his seat and picking up the reins. On the bench, though, he sat still, his chest heaving. “Demut,” he muttered. “Demut.”

  Lord, this is impossible. Not my will, but Yours.

  Ruth put her slight weight on the pad that automatically opened the sliding doors at Vista Valley Nursing Home. Every time she entered, she found the name of her place of employment ironic, and perhaps a contributing factor to her ongoing homesickness. Though she lived and worked and went to school snug against the foothills to the Rockies, she longed for the wide vistas of the San Luis Valley. Someday she would go back. That had been her plan all along.

  Ruth walked briskly down the hall then took the corridor to the left, the one with the teal green stripe on the floor to direct visitors in and out of the wing where she spent twenty-five hours a week.

  The nurse at the desk greeted her. “Ruth! Good. Mrs. Watson has been asking for you.”

  “Thanks, Angela,” Ruth said. “Let me clock in, and I’ll go see her.”

  In the break room, Ruth spun the dial on a padlock and opened her locker. She laid her purse on a shelf and picked up the comfortable white shoes she always left there. In a moment, she had changed her footwear and pulled on a smock. The other staff wore scrubs, but Ruth couldn’t quite allow herself to don them and was grateful that—so far—the administration was sensitive to her religious leanings. Her skirts were simple and easy to move in, and the name tag on her smock clearly identified her as an employee.

  When she was ready to go out on the floor, she slid her time card into the machine and awaited verification that it registered properly. It was precisely 6:00 p.m. Her shoes squeaked as she padded down the hall to Mrs. Watson’s room.

  The resident, sitting in a wheelchair, lit up as soon as she saw Ruth. “My favorite person in the whole place!”

  “You’re sweet, Mrs. Watson. I could probably squeeze in ten minutes of reading to you now, if you like, then more a little later.”

  “I know they don’t pay you to read to me.”

  “They pay me to care for you, and reading does that. Besides, I would come even if they didn’t pay me.”

  “Now you’re the one being sweet,” the old woman said. “I was just thinking today about how long we’ve known each other.”

  “More than a year,” Ruth supplied.

  “That’s how I reckon it, too. And in all that time I don’t ever remember you taking a week off.”

  “No, I guess I haven’t.” Ruth picked up a couple of magazines from the end table. Mrs. Watson had particular reading tastes. “Do you want BBC History or the Smithsonian?”

  “You don’t have to read to me now, dear. I’m talking about a vacation for you.”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Watson. I go to school year-round. There’s not much time for a vacation.”

  “But you haven’t been home in all this time.”

  “No,” Ruth said quietly, “I haven’t.”

  “Won’t you have a break between terms at the end of the summer? If you request the time off now, surely they’ll grant it.”

  “It can be hard to find a sub.” Ruth flipped a few magazine pages.

  “Nonsense. People take vacation days all the time. Don’t you want to go home?”

  “Very much.”

  “Then you should go.”

  Ruth smiled as she laid the magazines back on the table. “I have a few things to do. I should be back in about an hour to help you get ready for bed.”

  She slipped out of the room and leaned against the pale pink wall in the corridor. How could she explain to a sweet old lady like Mrs. Watson that she was fairly certain her mother did not want her to come home? Not after the way she left. Not after her mamm found her hiding and waiting for a ride on that day of all days. Her departure had wrenched an enormous wound through both mother and daughter. Ruth was not sure it could ever heal enough for her to be welcome on the farm again.

  The roast beef was juiced to perfection. The sweet potatoes were mashed and baked with a golden brown-sugar crust. Garden-picked green beans and fresh red pepper slices splashed color across the table. Annie had lifted the buttermilk whole-wheat loaf from the bread machine herself not twenty minutes ago.

  Even without the vegetables, Aunt Lennie would have added all the color the table needed. At seventy-nine, she moved more slowly than Annie remembered, but her determination faltered no more than it had twenty years ago. She made Annie smile every time she blew through town. A comfortable, sprawling two-story home in Vermont was home base, but Lennie always seemed to be on the way to somewhere, and Annie couldn’t help but admire that.

  After her father gave thanks for the food, Annie lifted the bowl and offered a spinach and strawberry salad to Aunt Lennie.

  “Aunt Lennie,” Myra said as she moved a generous portion of sweet potatoes to her plate, “Annie is doing some family research. We thought you might fill in some of the blanks.”

  Brad Friesen transferred a slice of meat to his plate. “I confess I don’t know too much about the family history, other than what I remember about my parents—and you, of course.”

  “Most of what I know can’t be proven.” Lennie winked at Annie. “But I’ve stored away a tidbit or two. What would you like to know?”

  “It’s about your grandmother Byler.” Annie smeared butter on still-warm bread. “Do you know anything about the Byler name further back?”

  “Oh, there was an Abraham Byler and a string of Jacobs. Abraham was a sheriff, I believe. Malinda’s father. Shot in the line of duty. But the Jacobs? I can’t tell you too much.”

  “If Abraham was a sheriff, then I guess he wasn’t Amish.”

  “Hardly. Why would you think that?”

  “I didn’t really.” Annie stabbed three green beans. “It’s just similar to the name of some people I met recently.”

  “Amish?”

  Annie nodded.

  “In Colorado?” Lennie clanked her fork and sat up straight. “Well, I’ll be!”

  “It’s a fairly new settlement. Only a few families.”

  “So they’re trying again.” Lennie scratched an ear.

  Annie perked up. “What do you mean?”

  “Now, I told you, I can’t prove any of this. Family lore says the Amish came to Ordway around 1910. A Byler cousin fell in love with an Amish girl and joined up. He got baptized and everything. He was going to live off the land and make a bunch of babies.”

  “You mean we really have an Amish relative?” Annie picked up a bite of roast on her fork but did not raise it to her mouth.

  “Don’t get ahead of me.” Lennie put one finger on her chin as she thought. “Story has it that those poor folks never could get any irrigation out to their farms. After a few years, they packed up and went back to Pennsylvania. All except our cousin. Harold, I think his name was. Turns out he didn’t believe all that much, and when the babies didn’t come along, maybe he didn’t love all that much, either.”

  “What happened?” Annie asked. Around the table, eating had stopped as everyone waited for the story. Lennie was the only one who systematically moved food from plate to mouth.

  “Pennsylvania was the last straw,” Lennie said between two bites of sweet potatoes. “What was left of the community was giving up and going home. Except Pennsylvania wasn’t home for Harold. He disappeared the night before they were supposed to leave.”

  “What happened?” Annie pulled her phone out and started making notes.

  “He turned up in California a few weeks later and never did come back to Colorado.” Lennie tore a piece of bread in half. “I haven’t thought of that story for years.”

  “What about the Amish girl—his wife?”

  Lennie shrugged. “Don’t know.”

  Annie now had names to look for in her books. She tapped them into her phone. Abraham Byl
er. Harold Byler.

  “What do you remember about your grandmother?” Annie asked, poised to enter more information into her phone.

  “Malinda Byler? Not too much. Your grandma Eliza and I were little girls when she died. I remember she told us Bible stories on Sunday afternoons, and she could twist a chicken’s neck faster than anyone I ever knew in all the years since.” Lennie paused. “Of course, I don’t see too many people twisting chicken necks these days. It’s a dying skill.” She laughed at her own pun.

  Annie shook her head with a smile. Aunt Lennie was always the same.

  “Her son Randolph was your father, right?” Annie asked, picturing the family tree she had sketched.

  “Right. But she had other children. Most of them moved back to Arkansas at some point, but Daddy always liked the wide-open spaces of Colorado. I never thought I’d leave, either, until your Uncle Ted used his wiles to lure me to Vermont.”

  “It’s amazing how geography brings an end to the story so fast,” Annie mused. “Especially a hundred years ago.”

  “This is all fascinating,” Brad Friesen said, cutting into his meat. “I should have paid attention long ago. But, Annie, why are you so interested now?”

  Annie shrugged. “I just am. I’ve been so focused on getting where I’m going that I never thought much about where I came from.”

  “The Bylers are good stock.” Lennie nodded emphatically. “Except perhaps for that character Harold. When you make a promise, you ought to stick to it, not run the other direction.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Lennie,” Annie said. “You’ve told me things I might never have known.”

  “Yes,” Brad agreed. “I’m glad you put us on your route west.”

  Annie picked up a red pepper slice and bit into its crispness. Moments divided families for generations. She had the urge to call her sister in Seattle for a long chat. And she had the urge to track down Ruth Beiler, no matter what Rufus thought. She was never going to see him again anyway, so why did it matter?