The Outcast

by Jolina Petersheim

  The greenish-gray shape of the Americas surges up at me, resembling a cookie cutout slid on a place mat of blue cloth. I spread my arms and fingers and let the air buffet against my body, easing me down through the layers as a feather floats on the wind. To my left is the spiny black ridge of the Smoky Mountains connected to the larger vertebrae of the Appalachian chain. My speed increases the closer to my destination I draw. The must of lichen, mossy wood, and wet-weather creek beds clotted with old vegetation fills my nostrils. It is a familiar scent: the scent of my community, the scent of home.

  Swooping past feathered pine boughs and hardier deciduous trees, my body comes to rest on wet grass that cushions my limbs like a quilt. I sit up and brush twigs off my clothing—the plain black suit I was wearing when Verna and I wed—and pluck pieces of fern from my hair. My hair! Laughter bubbles up from the well of my chest and spills out my mouth, chiming over the mountainside with the resonance of bells. I didn’t have hair for the last twenty years I was alive. Looking down, I see that my beard is the same tawny blond it was in my youth. The hands that pat at my suit are no longer knotted with arthritis and crowded with veins.

  I hear a groan. My joviality ceases. My legs could carry me for ten thousand miles, but as I stand and walk over to Tobias’s prone form, it takes all my willpower not to collapse. I kneel before my firstborn. The instant my fingers touch the damp cotton covering his back, a pop of light goes off like an amplified burst of static electricity. I glance down at my hands still shielding Tobias’s spine and flex them. They do not ache, yet they look the same as when my precious wife crisscrossed them over my unmoving chest. My beard is now also long and white. The hair I have just rejoiced over has been removed from my head. Then I understand this second transformation that is as surprising as my first: I must appear to my son as the father he remembers so that my words can be received.

  Taking my newly ancient hands, I again place them on Tobias’s back. He groans and rolls over. A thread of blood unravels from the wound on his forehead.

  “Tobias,” I say.

  As when he was young and I would rock his shoulder and tell him I needed help birthing a calf or colt in the barn, my son swims up through the dense strata of sleep, struggling to awaken.

  “You need to get up, my son. We do not have long.”

  Tobias’s eyes fling back like shutters on a vacant house. His fleeting soul returns. “Dawdy?” He wets his lips and closes his eyes, but I am still here when he opens them again. “Dawdy? You—you can’t be here. You’re dead.” His eyes widen. “Am I . . . Does this mean I’m dead too?”

  I do not know what to call our meeting between this world and the next. I just know it is a rare gift I do not want to squander.

  “No, Son. You’re not dead,” I say. “You’re dreaming. You hit your head running in the woods.”

  The pain of Tobias’s memory returns. Tears seep from the corners of his eyes. “I hit her,” he wails. “I hit my own wife.”

  “I know, Tobias. I know.”

  “I was just so angry. I love Leah; I do. But I didn’t want anybody finding out about—”

  “You and Rachel.” It is not a question, but a statement.

  My son’s face blanches above the contrast of his beard. He looks down as his tears resume their fall. “I’m sorry, Dawdy.”

  “I am no longer here, Tobias. You do not need to be apologizing to me.”

  “You mean I need to apologize to Leah.”

  “Yes.” I nod. “And also to Rachel.”

  Tobias looks up with that old flash in his eyes. “Why should I apologize to her? Rachel’s the reason this all happened!”

  “Really? Weren’t you the one who entered her room that night?”

  “Yes, but she’s the one who invited me in.”

  “When you knocked on her door to give Rachel that quilt, you knew what you were thinking.”

  “But those were just thoughts, Dawdy. They would’ve never been actions if Rachel hadn’t turned around with her—” Tobias shakes his head in disgust, unable to remove the images trapped within the strongbox of his mind.

  “Even then, Tobias, you still had a choice.”

  His forehead ripples with so much frustration, the congealing cut on the upper left splits. “A choice?” he rails. “Would you have turned around if you’d been in my place?”

  “The turning should’ve happened long before that night. But yes, with the Lord’s help, I believe I could have.”

  Tobias snorts and wipes his bleeding forehead with his arm. “Then you’re a far better man than me.”

  “I wasn’t always,” I murmur, recalling how jealous I’d been watching Samuel Stoltzfus down in the New Holland show ring with Englischer girls prancing their gaudy feathers before him like birds of paradise. If one of them had pursued me to the same extent, I wouldn’t have tossed their phone numbers to the sawdusted floor like Samuel had. I would have taken advantage of those numbers. Lord forgive me, I would have taken advantage of the women who had written them down.

  Tobias’s ragged breathing is disrupted by the throaty hoot of an owl.

  “How did you change?” he asks.

  “I didn’t change; I was changed. I realized I hated the man I’d become. But I knew I didn’t have the power to change myself, so I asked the Lord to change me.”

  “That simple, huh?”

  “It could be that simple if you’d just lay down your pride. If you would ask the Lord’s forgiveness and forgiveness from those you’ve wronged.”

  “I can’t tell them what I’ve done, Dawdy. I can’t let Jonathan be Eli’s donor. If the community finds out, I’ll—I’ll lose everything. My familye will disown me. I’ll have to step down as bishop—”

  “I won’t tell you you won’t lose everything, Tobias,” I say. “Because you might. But what are a few years of temporal loss when you have gained your eternal soul?”

  The moment these words leave my mouth, I can feel something inside of me break loose as if I am fragments pieced together by the seamstress of time. Resting my hand on my son’s shoulder, I say, “Tobias. I have to go.”

  “Don’t leave, Dawdy!” He twines his arms around my waist even as my body splinters apart. “I can’t face this all alone!”

  I hold my firstborn child as tightly as I can. “You’re never alone, Tobias. Even if I have to leave, there’s One who never will.”

  My temporary body dissolves back to dust, and my spirit begins to ascend. “Ich liebe dich,” I call down to my son.

  With his arms outstretched and tear-streaked face upturned to the heavens, Tobias’s wail echoes across the mountain ridges like a feral cry: “Forgive me!”

  I don’t know if Tobias is asking for my forgiveness or for the forgiveness of Someone far greater than I. Either way, I believe that after this night my eldest son, Bishop Tobias King, will never look at this life, or the next life, in the same way.

  21

  Rachel

  The residents of Copper Creek heard my twelve-year-old nephew, Reuben, ring the schoolhouse bell at three o’clock in the morning, alerting everyone to our emergency before we wanted that emergency made known. Carrying so many lanterns that they dispelled the darkness more effectively than a row of streetlamps, the community followed Reuben up the lane and have been keeping vigil in front of Tobias and Leah’s farmhouse. The men gather in a tight, conspiratorial circle in the front yard—their heads with the uniform black hats lowered as they discuss the possibility of foul play. On the porch, the women hunker beneath shared quilts and shawls—their faces puffy with interrupted sleep, their eyelids slitted with the suspicious expression they’ve worn since they went upstairs to check on my bedridden sister and saw the left side of her face that grew darker with the coming of the dawn.

  The porch steps protest as I descend them. The community shifts to watch me bear the ineffectual offering of hot drink on a cold morning. During the Masts’ barn raising, I assumed this position as hostess because I knew it was w
hat Leah would want. Now I use this act of servitude to counter the times all the community saw in me was pride.

  Keeping my hand on the lid, I refill the cups I brought out three hours ago. Elvina Hostetler barely acknowledges me, but Rebecca Risser murmurs, “Danke,” and reaches out to touch my hand. The men say nothing, which is expected. At least they do not turn their backs.

  My chest tightens as I look at the eastern rim of the yard. Judah leans against a fence post, waiting for the ashen sky to transform to ocher, when the community will begin its search. For hours, he continued combing the fields and the outbuildings of the neighboring farms. He returned to the farmhouse only to see whether Tobias had been found before leaving it again in a desperate quest to find his brother. But I wonder if this quest has also been to avoid me.

  A prayer rises from my mouth, the words steaming like the carafe warming my hands. I cross the yard and take Judah’s cup from the fence post. Whipping cream dots the untouched surface.

  “You want more?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “I’m too sick to drink.”

  “Judah. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  Wind stings tears from my eyes. “But I am partly to blame.”

  “Don’t you know I blame myself?” His voice breaks. He looks up at the clouded bowl of sky. “I could have protected you better. Told Tobias I suspected—”

  “Judah, please,” I interrupt, setting the carafe on top of the post. I reach out and take his hand. “Forgive me. I know I’ve hurt you.”

  “Forgive you?” Judah turns. His eyes glow against the backdrop of the rapidly changing light. “How could I not forgive you? I’ve loved you my entire life, Rachel.” He lets go of my hand and clasps my elbows, drawing my body toward his. “I can’t stop now. . . . I’ve tried.”

  The community erupts into chatter. We break apart and see Tobias limp from the woods as first light treads gold dust across the fields. I gasp at his gruesome appearance; Judah does the same.

  Blood has crusted into a maroon birthmark that melts into Tobias’s beard. His pants and shirt are torn. A suspender trails behind him like rope. Looking at him, one would think my brother-in-law has been in a battle. But I can think of no battle other than the one that, for months now, Tobias has been fighting with himself.

  Puncturing the fog with his exclamation, Judah begins to run. No one gathered in the yard or on the porch says a word as the eldest and youngest King offspring draw closer to each other. Tobias’s wary stance conveys that he does not know whether his brother is coming to attack or embrace him. I am grateful my sister must remain in her sickbed and cannot watch this unpredictable exchange. Sweat moistens my hairline despite the morning chill.

  But there is no need for my fear, no need for my suspended breath. Two steps before reaching Tobias, Judah pauses and looks up at his elder brother. I cannot hear the words exchanged; I do not know if any are even said. Still, I can tell by the tears on Tobias’s face that the brothers are communicating more clearly than they ever have before.

  Minutes pass. The sun punctures through the clouds to the frosted earth, making it impossible to see either brother without first shielding our eyes. Judah slides his arm around Tobias, and they begin the slow journey across the field.

  Watching the brothers—who do not look like brothers at all—I cannot believe I ever thought Tobias was more of a man. For years, I dismissed Judah’s love as boyhood infatuation and brushed off his advances as if his heart had the same depth of feeling as a fly’s.

  Oh, how I wish I could take back those years of indifference! Oh, how I wish Judah and I were once again having that conversation on Ida Mae’s porch, watching the sheet of rain unfurl off the green tin roof because it was safer than looking in each other’s eyes.

  But I promised Ida Mae that I would not live my life wishing I had a chance to live it over. And so now, standing here against the fence post as a new day breaks, I vow that I will begin loving Judah as if the two of us are making up for lost time.

  Wiping tears, I smile as the two brothers pass me and enter the yard. Tobias has just mounted the first porch step when he shakes his head and extricates himself from Judah. Moving back into the yard, the bishop of Copper Creek stands before his community as if before the judgment throne: broad shoulders bent, head hanging low, hands folded as he prepares to face his reckoning.

  Swallowing deep, Tobias looks up at the faces of some of his congregants: Apologetic Lemuel and haughty Elvina Hostetler from the bakery. Newlyweds Leon and Katie Mast with their silver-framed glasses, timid brown eyes, and slender builds. Alvin and Rebecca Risser, appearing bereft without their brood of flaxen-haired children, who are probably stretching and yawning themselves awake in their beds. Elmer and Mable Schlabach, the ones who moved down with that first group led by the deceased bishop, Amos King. My dawdy and mamm are also here, along with Tobias’s own mudder, Verna, whose dark eyes are shadowed with worry.

  More of the community is represented than this, but Tobias does not take the time to look at them. Instead, he clears his throat and says, “I am standing before both God and man today . . .” He wipes his shirtsleeve across his face, smearing the cotton with more dirt and blood. “I am standing here because I need to ask you—my community, my family—for forgiveness. I need to ask my wife for forgiveness. And her sister. But most of all, I need to ask God. The past two years of my life have been a lie. Even before I married my wife, Leah, I fell in love with her sister. Rather than asking the deacons to help me, to keep me accountable, I chose to keep my pride by concealing my sin.”

  For the second time in my life—the first being at Amos King’s burial service, which was overseen by the same man who is speaking now—my face burns with the heat of a hundred stares. No one murmurs their shock, for, regardless of Tobias’s confessions, his position as bishop still commands their respect. But I can see their eyes dart around the yard until they land on the woman on its outskirts, who must have used every ounce of her feminine wiles to lure such a righteous man into temptation. The sweat that had gathered along my hairline pools at the waist of my cape dress. I dig my nails into the post. A sliver breaks loose and spears the soft pink quick of my nail. But I am thankful for the sting. It is almost a pleasant sensation compared to the discomfort of so many eyes resting on me.

  Tobias scans the faces of the crowd gathered outside his home. When he follows the direction of their gazes, he says, “Now, Rachel’s not the one you should blame. Last night, after I fell in the woods—” Tobias fingers the wound on his forehead—“I dreamed that my vadder came to me. He helped me learn that I am the one responsible for my actions. No one else is to blame. I never should have slept with my wife’s sister, but I did not sleep with her because she seduced me. I slept with my wife’s sister because of the way I allowed my lust for her to consume my conscience until my conscience couldn’t check my desires. And now—as I stand here before you all, my community, my witnesses—I would like to ask Rachel’s forgiveness for not being the man I should have been. For not being a better brother-in-law, a better husband to her sister, a better servant of God.”

  I am so astonished by Tobias’s words, I find none with which to reply. But it is as if he doesn’t expect me to say that I forgive him or ask him for his forgiveness. And only at this moment do I believe that whatever vision Tobias had of Amos must have performed a miracle of biblical proportions.

  His eyes bright and dry, his voice ardent as he delivers what he must know is his final address, Tobias continues, “Because of my sin, Eli was conceived. But that does not mean he should be punished for my wrongs. As most of you know, Eli is lying in a hospital bed in Nashville, waiting for a bone marrow transplant that could save his life. Since Leah and Rachel are twins, my son Jonathan has the possibility to be Eli’s match. Until last night, I had no intention to allow Jonathan to be Eli’s donor. Not because I was afraid of what would happen to Jonathan, but because I was afraid of what would happen t
o me once you all knew the truth. Then last night, in my dream, my vadder told me that I would never find freedom if I did not ask forgiveness from the Lord, from my wife, from Rachel—and from all of you.”

  Tobias’s shoulders are still curled forward, but I notice with every secret brought into light, his spine is straightening and his swarthy countenance is growing clear.

  “So now you know the truth,” he says. “Now you all know the man I was for the past two years. But I hope that by my revealing these things to you, you also know the man I hope one day to become.”

  After such a plethora of shocking news, not even the sternest of tongues can be suppressed. The entire Copper Creek Community murmurs among themselves, and Tobias and I stare at one another in silence. For the first time since I have known him, I can look into those dark eyes without feeling attraction, censure, or shame. I do not know how so few words have the power to wipe away so many wrongs. But there is such buoyancy in my spirit—there is such hope in my heart—that I know those few words of true repentance were the panacea Tobias and I needed to move on.

  “I forgive you,” I murmur; then—because it is not enough for the promise he has given to both me and our son—I say, “Forgive me.”

  A smile stretches across Tobias’s weary face. He nods and looks at his feet. Then his head jerks up, and there is only one name on his lips. “Leah.”