An Amish Picnic

by Amy Clipston

  “We’re sorry about the loss of your husband.” David’s voice was soft, respectful.

  “I didn’t lose him. He passed.” Mary crossed her arms. “I never could abide that term. His life was complete, and I was there when he passed a dozen years ago . . . Gotte granted that I could hold his hand as he slipped from this life to the next.”

  “Mary, we don’t mean to upset you in any way.” Faith tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. She stared at the sky, at the still approaching clouds, and reminded herself it was only a spring storm and nothing to be afraid of. “It’s only that we found the letters, and after David contacted you, he was also able to locate Peter.”

  Mary’s head jerked up and her eyes widened. “Peter? He’s alive?”

  “He is and living over in Middlebury.”

  “He’d like to see you, Mary.” David nodded toward his buggy. “He’s home this afternoon. If you want, we’d be happy to take you.”

  Mary had been brusque since they arrived—a real no-nonsense kind of person. It seemed to Faith that a façade fell away, and she was now looking at a gentler version of the woman—one far less sure of herself. Her hand went to her kapp, smoothing it against her head. She stood, turned toward her front door, and Faith could just make out a whispered, “Foolish to care how I look at my age.” She turned back toward them, shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe what she was agreeing to.

  “So you’ll go?” Faith asked.

  “Let me get my cane. Not that I’m interested in any romantic notions you youngies may have cooked up, but . . . My, I never thought Peter might be alive and living in the area. I never . . . I never checked.”

  Mary fetched her cane and a sweater, then walked to the main house and told her daughter-in-law she was off to see an old friend. Ten minutes later, they were back in the buggy and heading toward Peter Yutzy’s home.

  As the clouds continued bearing down on them, Faith tried to focus on the calming techniques she’d learned from her counselor—controlled breathing, imagining a bright sunny day, appreciating the solid feel of the leather seat beneath her. She even tried her muscle-relaxing exercises. When that didn’t alleviate the knot in her stomach, she prayed and attempted to focus on Mary and Peter and David.

  Her counselor had suggested that in these situations she focus on the fact that the frightening feelings would pass. It was true. A part of her mind accepted it was true. This time tomorrow she’d be able to laugh at herself.

  But it wasn’t funny now, and she certainly didn’t feel like laughing.

  How long would she have to deal with these attacks?

  Why couldn’t she be normal?

  Why did her mind perceive a threat when there was none?

  Thunder rolled and the tightness in her chest increased. If only she could get out of the buggy, she would be all right. She closed her eyes and prayed they would reach Peter’s quickly.

  * * *

  Peter Yutzy stood in the door of his barn staring at David, Faith, and Mary. David had spoken with Peter on the phone, told him about the letters, and even received permission to visit. He supposed hearing a thing and experiencing it were quite different. At the moment, Peter seemed to be struggling to make sense of what Faith said, and David was worried the old guy might have a heart attack right then and there.

  He didn’t have a heart attack, though, and truth be known, he probably wasn’t that old. Seventy, if David had done the math right.

  “Mary, is it really you?”

  Mary nodded, but didn’t answer. She’d been quite stoic on the ride over, but now her armor seemed to have dropped. In its place was a woman staring into her past.

  “Peter . . . I didn’t know. I didn’t know you settled here in Middlebury.”

  “And you’re still in Shipshe?”

  “Ya. Of course.”

  They didn’t seem to know what else to say to one another. The sky had darkened and made it seem more like night than day. Faith kept glancing up behind her as if something might drop out of the storm and come after them.

  “It’s only a spring storm,” David said, stepping closer to her and lowering his voice. “It’s coming in faster than they predicted, but we’re going to be just fine.”

  She nodded, but her posture—she was standing as straight and rigid as an ironing board—told David she was not all right. At that moment, a streak of lightning split the sky and thunder hammered even closer.

  “Best get your buggy in my barn. It’ll be a tight fit, but you won’t want to leave the horse out in this.”

  David hurried out to retrieve the horse, then guided the buggy into the barn. As Peter had predicted, they barely fit. Peter’s horse was in its stall—the only one in the small structure, and his buggy was positioned outside the door. The place was clean, efficient, and compact. Faith was staring at the ceiling, which was remarkably low for a barn, and clutching her arms around her middle.

  “This must have been a garage that he converted,” David whispered to her. “Are you okay?”

  Faith nodded, closing her eyes, and swaying slightly.

  “What do you mean I never answered?” Peter’s voice rose with each word—troubled and full of emotion. “Of course I answered. I wrote you every day—”

  “Until I asked you about marrying, and then you stopped.”

  “I did not,” he stubbornly maintained. “I wrote you every single day until I received your letter telling me there was no point in writing any more, that you’d rather not hear from me.”

  “I only said that after an entire week of silence . . . the very week following my letter to you speaking of marriage.” Mary looked around the barn in confusion, as if wondering how she’d come to be there. “I was a young, strong-willed thing. Why did I think it was my place to bring up marriage? You were so far away, and I was afraid. That’s all. For a moment, I let fear rule my better sense. Scared you away, I’m sure.”

  “You did not.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Peter. You changed your mind. That was many years ago, and there’s no need to discuss it now. We can’t change the past.”

  “We might not be able to change the past, but we can understand it,” David said as he accepted the packet of letters Faith pulled from her bag with trembling hands.

  “These are the letters Faith and I found on the Pumpkinvine Trail.”

  “That’s my handwriting.” Peter’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

  “Ya, we believe these are letters you wrote. Apparently, the mailman dropped them. I haven’t figure out that part for certain. We were on the Pumpkinvine Trail, and Faith’s little dog took off into the brush—under some kudzu vines.”

  “We went in after her and were looking for the dog. The vine had created a cave of sorts.” Faith swallowed, licked her lips, and continued. “We rescued Pebbles, and then as we were looking for our way out, we found the box. I suppose it has been there since 1970.”

  David added, “It took us some time to track down exactly who the letters belonged to.”

  “The writing is smeared.” Mary had stepped closer. She reached out to run her fingers across the address.

  “We couldn’t make out much. As you can see, it’s a real mess. The last name and address—they aren’t readable at all.” David looked toward Faith for confirmation, but she had backed away and was staring at the ceiling. “So we . . . Well, we had to read the letters. I’m sorry about that, as obviously, they were very personal.”

  David realized Mary and Peter weren’t listening to him at all. They were staring at one another, and he somehow knew they had both stepped back in time to their younger selves and an earlier dream.

  “We’ll just let you two have a moment alone.” David ducked away and turned to look for Faith, but she was gone. She couldn’t be gone. The rain was coming down in torrents now, and the noise on the metal roof was deafening. There was no way she had stepped outside.

  He found her on her knees at the other end of the b
arn under a corner window.

  She had her arms clutched around her stomach and was curled in a ball, rocking back and forth, her eyes squeezed shut.

  Immediately he thought back to the night at the carnival when he found her in a corner of the House of Mirrors. He thought of the afternoon he showed her the tiny house. In that moment, he understood. This was it. This was his chance to correct how he’d acted both of those times.

  David thought of all he’d read and how he’d prepared for this moment in case it happened again, and then he petitioned God for guidance.

  Squatting beside Faith, he placed a hand on each of her arms, touching her softly but firmly, and hoping she would look at him.

  “Faith, you’re going to be all right. I know you’re scared, but I’m right here with you.”

  Tiny rivulets of sweat dripped down her face, and when he leaned closer, David realized her teeth were chattering. He waited, giving her time to collect her thoughts, and finally, she opened her eyes. But she only glanced at him a moment, not even seeing him it seemed.

  “I need to go.” She jumped to her feet, her gaze darting out the window and back, searching—no doubt—for an escape. “I need to get out of here.”

  “Nein. We need to stay put. I’m right here with you, and I’m not going to let anything happen.”

  She looked in his direction, and then her gaze darted away. Her breathing remained fast and shallow and her skin looked clammy. David had a glimpse of just how hard certain situations were for her, and his heart ached that she was so terrified. He realized he needed to earn her trust.

  “I know you’re frightened.” Once again he put a hand lightly on each of her shoulders, hoping his touch would calm her. “Can you breathe with me? Match your breaths with mine. A little slower now—in, and out. That’s gut.”

  The look of panic softened, though her teeth still chattered.

  “Do you know what I’d like to do tomorrow?”

  She looked at him as if he’d lost his mind.

  “I’d like to take you for some more ice cream. We’ve solved the mystery of the letters. Peter and Mary—they’re reading the letters now. I think we’ve earned a treat. Don’t you?”

  Faith nodded, as if she understood at least a little of what he was saying.

  “Maybe we could try that mint chocolate you were ogling.”

  A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips—lips he longed to kiss. And then she did something he hadn’t dared hope for. With a sigh, she stepped into his arms. She allowed him to hold her. David felt an emotion he hadn’t known he could feel swell in his heart. He felt, for the first time in a very long time, that he’d come home.

  He understood then that home wasn’t a room in his bruder’s house. It wasn’t a tiny house or a large one. Home was where the people you cared about most stayed.

  Faith’s breathing had calmed, and her teeth stopped chattering. David offered a prayer of thanksgiving that Gotte had put him in the right place at the right time to care for her when she needed it.

  Standing there in that little barn with Mary and Peter on the other side, a horse and buggy between them, and a spring storm raging outside, David realized how important this moment was.

  He cared deeply for Faith Troyer.

  He loved her. He loved Faith Troyer, and he wanted to be by her side through beautiful spring days and stormy ones, through days of mystery and days of hard work, through the trials and the triumphs of life.

  Gently holding his arms around her, he felt her trembling gradually lessen. Within fifteen minutes, the sky lightened, and the rain stopped.

  Faith pulled back and looked up at him sheepishly. “I’m sorry.” She took a step back. “That was . . . embarrassing.”

  “Please don’t say that. Your condition is nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  He stepped toward her, gently placed his fingers under her chin and raised her head so she was looking at him instead of staring at a spot on his shirt.

  “I meant what I said.”

  “About?”

  “Taking you for ice cream.”

  When she laughed, he did what he’d longed to do for some time now—he kissed her softly, breathing in the smell of powder and shampoo and flowers. He might have stood there another hour, kissing her and reveling in the wave of emotions that had beset him, but they heard laughter from the other side of the barn.

  “Mary and Peter?” Faith asked.

  “Ya.”

  “I don’t remember . . .”

  “They were reading the letters. Let’s go see how they’re getting on.”

  Chapter 8

  Faith’s emotions felt like popcorn in a hot skillet. On the one hand, she was mortified that she’d had another full-blown panic attack in front of David. On the other hand, she was still tingling from his kiss. And below all of that ran his words, his assurance, that her condition was nothing to be ashamed of. She remembered the look in his eyes, the softness of his voice, and the tender way he’d held her.

  Had all of that really happened?

  She thought she might have imagined it, but now he reached for her hand, winked at her, and pulled her toward the other side of the barn where Mary and Peter were seated on a bench, the box of letters between them.

  The last thing she remembered clearly—before the fog of her panic attack—was Mary fussing in the back seat, saying she certainly hadn’t expected upon waking this morning to see Peter Yutzy that day. Mary had grown markedly more perturbed the longer they’d driven, but now her look of grimness had been replaced by something akin to joy.

  She smiled up at them shyly and said, “I owe you two an apology. I wasn’t very gracious when you came to see me and suggested visiting Peter.”

  “It must have been very hard,” Faith said. “After all these years.”

  “We weren’t sure if we were doing the right thing,” David admitted. “We asked our parents, and they said we shouldn’t get involved, that we shouldn’t meddle in other people’s lives.”

  Peter was shaking his head before David finished. “If you hadn’t brought us these, if you hadn’t cared enough to pick them up and read them and try to find their owners? Well, Mary and I might not have ever cleared up a misunderstanding that took place long ago.”

  “During the war,” Faith whispered.

  “Ya.” Mary looked up. “And I suppose we owe you two the whole story.”

  “Not here though. Let’s move to the house now that the storm has stopped. I never married, so I’m an old bachelor who had to learn how to cook or depend on the mercy of widows.” Peter laughed at himself. “I made cranberry bars this morning, and I’ll fix us some hot tea.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they were gathered around the small kitchen table. Peter’s home was even more plain than most Amish homes—probably owing to his status as a bachelor. Faith noticed a stack of Budget newspapers on a plain oak desk under the living room window. “Are you a scribe?”

  “I am. Started in 1972, when I moved back to Shipshe. I was devastated to find that the love of my life had wed another—”

  “We should start back at the beginning.” Mary broke off a piece of the cranberry bar and popped it in her mouth. “These are wunderbaar.”

  “I told you. I’m a gut cook.”

  “I didn’t believe you.”

  “Probably because I didn’t know how to boil water when we were dating.”

  Mary’s smile grew, and it so lightened her expression, making her appear so much younger, that Faith marveled she was the same woman they had picked up just an hour ago.

  “You’ve changed,” Mary said to Peter.

  “In some ways. In other ways, I’m the same boy who once loved you. I never admitted that in my letters, but I should have. I should have told you how I felt.”

  She nodded, plainly wanting to comment, but instead she dusted off her fingers and returned her attention to Faith and David.

  “Peter
and I had been dating a few months when he decided to file as a conscientious objector.”

  “It was that or go to war, and, well . . . I didn’t see how I could go against my faith.”

  “My heart broke when they sent him away.”

  “To Ohio.” Peter peered out the window. “That seems like so long ago now, and in another way, it seems like yesterday.”

  “We wrote each other every day but agreed to mail our letters just once a week. That way we’d have an entire week’s worth of letters to look forward to.”

  “I wouldn’t have made it through those first few months without Mary’s letters. I was more homesick than a child visiting distant relatives for the first time.”

  “Our letters grew more . . . intimate, and I became quite bold.”

  “You always did speak your mind, Mary. I loved that about you.”

  “Finally in one of my letters, the last one of that week in early June, I asked Peter if he thought we might marry one day.” She sipped her tea and then continued. “I was afraid he’d meet another woman in Ohio and forget all about Shipshe—and me.”

  “I never forgot you.” Peter’s voice was soft, the admission simple and heartfelt.

  “When I didn’t hear back from him the next week, I feared I’d overstepped.”

  “Remember, we swapped letters once a week.” Peter tapped the bundle beside him on the table. “These letters you found were written at the same time that Mary asked me about marrying, which I had dreamed of but hadn’t dared suggest.”

  “When I didn’t receive a package that week, I couldn’t imagine what had happened. At first, I thought the mail had been delayed, but then doubt took hold—fear took hold. For several days I worried and fretted. Worked myself up into quite a state. Obviously, I’d revealed my feelings too soon. I was mortified. Finally, after five days and no word, I wrote to him again.”

  “Uh-oh,” David said as he reached for another cranberry bar.

  “Exactly. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was too embarrassed and too . . . Well, it sounds silly to say, but so heartbroken that my emotions were guiding my actions. You know how it is to be a youngie.” She cocked her head and looked first at David and then Faith. It seemed she was about to say something, but instead she pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut. “I wrote a single page, strongly worded letter, ending our relationship and telling Peter I’d rather not hear from him again.”