by Mary Ellis
TWELVE
Foul, I to the fountain fly
Wash me, Savior, or I die
Nora stood by her bedroom window, unable to sleep. Men sure had a habit of making a big deal out of nothing. John and Thomas had both overreacted to her questioning Elam about upstate Maine. She wasn’t about to move to moose country to take up backpacking in the wilderness or apply for work on a logging crew. She simply wanted to find out if the rest of Maine was as dull as this part. Maybe if she had somebody who cared about her, like Amy or Sally, things might be different. But single women had few opportunities here, and after the mistakes she’d made last spring, single might be all she would ever be.
Beyond the pane of glass lay a dark and silent world. A full moon rose in the east, illuminating the fields and meadows. Nora pushed upon the window a few inches to listen but received only a chillier room for her efforts. In Lancaster, night sounds used to comfort her whenever sleep wouldn’t come. Barking dogs, slamming car doors when the neighbor returned from a night shift, faraway train whistles, and the constant hum of truck traffic on Interstate 30. Here in Maine, she heard nothing—even dogs, crickets, and hoot owls went to bed early and slept soundly. Couldn’t John have picked a happy medium between constant-tourist hubbub and quiet as a tomb?
Nora closed the window, and as she turned away a flicker of light caught her attention. She focused on the back pasture until she spotted it again—a tiny red dot where there were no outbuildings or road. Without blinking, Nora watched the soft glow approach. Then a man stepped into a ring of moonlight just beyond the house. Clad in dark clothing with his hat brim pulled low, he approached the outside entrance to the cellar. Nora was certain it was Elam. He dragged on a cigarette and then tossed it into the weeds by the steps.
He was smoking—a habit frowned upon even in more liberal Lancaster. She couldn’t imagine what the Harmony bishop or Thomas or John would say about that. Sally certainly had few nice things to say about the youngest Detweiler brother. Usually she rolled her eyes or made a clucking noise with her tongue whenever someone mentioned his name.
Nora had read that smoking caused everything from bad breath to lung cancer, yet watching Elam somehow imbued the nasty habit with an odd appeal. He was like no other man she knew, here or back home. Men either left the Amish faith or conformed to the district’s ways once they left rumschpringe behind. But Elam seemed to be Amish by his own set of rules—a freethinker in a culture that didn’t encourage independence. A black sheep. Shivering in the cold room, she slipped under her quilt to contemplate the puzzling man.
Why did he sleep in the cellar instead of his own room? Why had he come to supper when he usually avoided his family? And where had he been in the middle of the night, on foot, while everyone else slept like the dogs, crickets, and owls? Without her sister to rein her in, Nora decided to search out Elam in his private, subterranean world the first chance she got.
The next day Nora’s investigation proved easier than expected. Thomas announced at breakfast that he and Sally would visit the other minister to discuss district business. “Would you like me to watch Jeremiah and Aden for you?” she asked over her plate of scrambled eggs.
Sally shook her head. “Danki, but no. We’ll be gone most of the day, so I’ll need to feed the baby. And Aden loves to play with their son. Being with someone his own age will do him good. Maybe he’ll stop seeing food as playthings.”
“Would you like to come with us?” asked Thomas. “Otherwise, you’ll be alone on the farm. John left to visit more properties for sale.”
“Nein, danki. I have a book I’ve been meaning to read.”
“Could you put the chickens in the oven around three o’clock? I’ve already stuffed them with celery-and-sage dressing.”
Nora nodded. “I’d be happy to,” she said, grateful that Sally had already prepared them for roasting. “I’ll cook some vegetables and maybe boil some cranberries for a relish.”
After the Detweilers had loaded up and left, Nora headed into the bathroom for a hot shower and a fresh dress. She chose one of her Lancaster favorites because no one remained to criticize the unsuitable shade of color. Half an hour later, she was tiptoeing toward the outdoor entrance to the cellar. The door lay wide open, probably to catch some of the last sunny weather after a string of rainy days. Nora crept down the stone steps like a thief after a king’s gold. Her stealthy approach fooled no one, however.
“Who goes there—friend or foe?” a deep male voice boomed from the unseen recesses.
“Friend, I think,” she called, steadying herself against the damp walls. “It’s Nora King. I’d like a word with you.”
Elam’s face appeared in the opening at the bottom. “Oh, Nora King, as opposed to one of the dozen other Noras around here.” He smirked, showing off two deeply-set dimples.
“Smarty-pants.” She marched down the steps as indignation bolstered her confidence. “Can’t you just say ‘Hello’ or ‘How are you?’ like most decent folk?”
“As you probably suspected, I’m not a decent sort of person, but as you’re my first visitor down here, I’ll say anything you like.” Elam bowed low. “Hello, Nora. How are you?” He straightened up and looked her in the eye. “Are you breathing easier with my brother gone for the day?”
“I breathe fine every day, danki. Thomas doesn’t bother me,” Nora said as she turned slowly to assess his living quarters. He had a metal bed with a ragged patchwork quilt, an oak dresser with missing knobs, a stack of towels by a plastic stationary tub, a kerosene lamp hanging from an overhead beam, and a second lamp at his bedside. His table had been fashioned out of apple crates. An array of magazines was spread across the coverlet, with two or three open to glossy photos. She walked toward them curiously.
“What have you got here?” She reached the bed before remembering some English men liked to look at pictures of half-dressed women when their mamms or wives weren’t around. But she needn’t have worried. Every one of the pictures was of a vehicle of some sort—car, truck, or motorcycle. Some sported flashy stripes or orange flames, shiny chrome, or huge knobby tires to raise the vehicle feet off the ground. Every imaginable paint color was represented in the photographs.
“You found out my secret. I’m afraid I have developed a fondness for more horsepower than my Standardbred can deliver.” He plopped down on his bed and pawed through the magazines.
Nora picked up one that showcased a two-seater convertible with a name she couldn’t pronounce. “How much would this little thing cost?” She shoved the cover under his nose.
He didn’t need to read the fine print. “About seventy-five thousand.” He leaned back on his elbows, completely relaxed.
“Seventy-five thousand dollars?” she squawked. “According to John, you could practically buy a farm around here for that.”
“True enough, but that sports car would be way more fun.”
She thumbed through another issue. “How much for this van?” She held up another photo.
“Less than half that much, somewhere around thirty grand.”
“That makes no sense. The little car will only fit two people, while the van will seat at least eight comfortably.” She clutched the magazine to her chest.
Elam didn’t laugh or make fun of her. Instead, he spoke in a patient voice. “It’s hard to explain. You are paying for a high-performance engine and an expensive interior with leather seats and fancy instrumentation. But most of all you’re buying the prestige that’s associated with the automaker’s name. This German company will make very few of the sports car, so that makes it especially pricey.”
Nora nodded to indicate she understood when, in fact, she didn’t at all. “I think I would rather buy the van with plenty of room.” She tried not to stare at the man lying across the bed on his elbows. She focused on his hairbrush on the apple crate. It was loaded with long strands of shiny dark hair. They looked as though they would be silky to touch.
“Maybe if you rode in the conv
ertible just once, you would change your mind.” Elam rose and began stacking the magazines into a pile.
Her heart thudded against her chest wall as she watched him. “Where did you get all of those?”
“From the nice librarian in Harmony. Every six months they throw out the old issues, and she saves them for me.”
“Doesn’t she find it strange? You being Amish and all?”
“If she does think that she hides it well.”
When he stopped tidying up, they were uncomfortably close. Nora felt a sensation wavering between excitement and fear in her belly. “I saw you smoking last night from my window,” she blurted out.
“Now you know two of my deep, dark secrets, and I know none of yours.”
“I don’t have any secrets,” she said, sounding disappointed.
“Everyone has secrets, whether they are Amish, English, or Eskimo. Can I trust you with mine?” He cocked his head to one side.
“I don’t know. I guess so.” She backed up until she bumped into the washtub.
He stretched his arms over his head and touched the beams. “Why are we in a damp old basement on such a fine day? Let’s take a walk, Nora King, down to the river. After all, Thomas isn’t here to say we can’t.”
“Why not?” she asked, pulling her bonnet from her pocket. Without giving it a single thought, she ran up the steps into the bright sunshine.
As they strolled through harvested cornfields toward the woods, Nora saw Thomas’s farm from a new perspective. Maybe it was because sunshine warmed her back or because hawks soaring above lifted her spirits too. But most likely it was because Elam asked questions, encouraging Nora to talk about herself.
Once they left sight of the Detweiler house, he seemed to relax even more. “I heard a rumor you’re courting Lewis. Is it true?”
They had been casually comparing Lancaster to Harmony, so the offhand question took her by surprise. “No, it’s not true. At least, not anymore,” she stammered. “Lewis is very nice, but courting him means staying here for the rest of my life. And I’m not sure I want that.”
Elam grabbed at an overhead branch, sending down a cascade of red leaves on their heads. “So you’re not content having lived in only two states? Where do you wish to go next?” His words contained no sarcasm whatsoever.
“I don’t know…maybe Ohio or Missouri—or Germany, to the town where they made that little red car. I wonder if Germans have ever seen Amish people.”
“Probably not, so everyone will learn something new.” Elam took her arm as the lane sloped downhill to the river. A strong current carried dead leaves and branches onto the next logjam. Close to the water’s edge, he stopped and drew a cigarette from the pack in his jacket pocket. He lit it, inhaled, and released a puff of smoke with a satisfied sigh.
“What do those things taste like?” She had to peer up at him because he was at least half a foot taller.
“Like smoke. Not very good.”
“Could I try one?”
He considered her. “I don’t think so. You won’t like it, Nora. Besides, it’s a nasty habit I really wish I never started.”
“Please? You don’t want me to confuse you with Thomas, do you?” She arched her neck and balled her hands into fists.
His eyebrows lifted. “No, I surely don’t.” He shook out one from the pack. “Suit yourself, but don’t come complaining to me later.”
“I won’t.” She studied both ends of the cigarette.
“Put the filter end in your mouth and light the tobacco.”
He flicked his green lighter and Nora leaned forward close enough to smell something spicy. His aftershave? His hair tonic? Is that why his hair is so shiny? She tried to identify the scent while drawing air through the cigarette into her lungs. Suddenly, the noxious smoke caused her to gag and cough.
“What did I tell you?” Elam folded her arms over his broad chest. “I said you wouldn’t like it.” He tried to pull the offender from her lips.
But Nora quickly turned her back on him. “I took too big a puff. Let me try a smaller one.” Nora took several short puffs and tried to hold the smoke inside, to no avail. She coughed and sputtered same as before.
“Give me that thing before it makes you sick.” He reached around to take it away from her.
But the damage had been done. Without warning, the leaf-strewn riverbank tilted before her eyes. Her belly churned as though she’d eaten something spoiled. Nora took a few steps toward the thick holly and mountain laurel bushes that grew nearby. Yet privacy during her personal humiliation wasn’t to be. Eggs, orange juice, and two cups of coffee surged up her burning throat.
Without a shred of dignity or decorum, Nora vomited into the weeds and mud at the water’s edge. And she had to listen to Elam’s hoots of laughter all the way back to Sally’s house.
John set down his ax to catch his breath. He gazed at the enormously long pile of stacked, split firewood with little satisfaction. He needed to stop distracting himself with physical labor and figure out what to do before it was too late.
Thomas’s admonishment in the barn had been an eye-opener for him. It wasn’t Sally’s stories of her Missouri adventures turning Amy’s head. And the problem wasn’t Amy’s sister. Either Nora would adjust to Harmony’s rules or the bishop would send her back to Pennsylvania. The problem was himself. Every time Thomas turned around, he and Amy were arguing about something. The bishop would never agree to marry them if they couldn’t get along. Although he would have preferred Amy not to have visited her aunt, what was done was done. He hoped the bishop wouldn’t make an issue of the trip during their marital counseling…if he ever scheduled their sessions. Prudence Summerton was banned and wouldn’t be moving back to town. The only threat she presented was the one he created from his insecurity.
For the third time that hour, John withdrew his cell phone from his pocket and checked for new messages and the battery strength. He’d ridden his horse to the gas station in Harmony just to charge up the battery, fearful he would miss Amy’s call. But he hadn’t. She called yesterday to say she was coming home this evening. She provided few details regarding the visit, only that she’d found her aunt at her last known address.
It was time to put this ordeal behind them. He aimed to welcome the woman he loved home the best way he knew how. Burying his ax into the chopping block, John marched to the house to shower and start preparations. He would enlist Sally’s help and maybe Nora’s too. Tonight Amy would wonder why she’d traveled north in the first place, once he started acting like the man she’d fallen in love with.
Three hours later, when she climbed from the bus, John could barely restrain himself. How he yearned to lift her up into a bear hug. She looked so small and helpless bundled in the heavy cloak with her oversized bonnet. But because some of other passengers were Amish ladies, he didn’t dare. Instead, he stretched out his hand to shake. “Welcome home, Amy. How was the ride? Are you hungry? Dinner is ready for us back at the house.” He rattled on like Aden after a nap.
Amy handed him her bag with her left hand and shook with her right. “I’m fine, John, and eager to be home. Jah, I’m hungry, but I hope Sally hasn’t held dinner for me. The rest of the family will be starved by the time we get back.” They walked toward the buggy shoulder to shoulder in the brilliant autumn sunshine.
“Nein. I told everyone to eat because I planned a surprise for your homecoming.” He helped her step up to the seat.
“What are you up to, John Detweiler? This doesn’t sound like you.”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it? Just be patient and all things will be revealed. Tell me about your aunt…and Will Summerton.” He clucked to the horse to get the buggy moving.
“She’s well and still lives at the address provided by the bishop. She was working in her garden when I arrived. She knew who I was because she’d received both my letters.”
John focused his gaze on the road ahead, keeping the buggy as far to the right
as possible.
Amy tugged off her outer bonnet once they left the co-op parking lot. “She received Leon Hilty’s death notice but hadn’t realized the significance. Yet when I explained that her marriage occurred after her first husband’s death, it didn’t make an ounce of difference to her.”
“Is that right?” he asked, feigning interest. The sooner they finished talking about Prudence, the sooner they could discuss important topics, such as the farms he’d seen.
“She said it didn’t matter. She would have to repent for marrying Will to be restored to the Harmony community. And she’s not sorry—not one little bit.”
“You can’t tell other people how to live their lives, Amy. You can only hope they make the right choices.”
“I know that, but it’s not fair. She left Uncle Leon in the first place because he beat her. He used to get drunk and then strike her—many times, not just once or twice.”
John hated to hear about abuse. Women should be treated with respect and kindness, considering that God made them the weaker of the sexes. He felt a stab of guilty remorse about burning Prudence’s letters. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, like patching the hole in the roof before it started to rain. “I’m sorry to hear that, Amy, but even though she had good reason to divorce, we can’t go around changing the Ordnung to suit individual circumstances.”
“I know, but I find this incredibly sad.” She leaned her head on his shoulder.
The gesture sent his blood pumping through his veins twice as fast. “Perhaps she’ll change her mind someday,” he murmured.
“They still live Amish. They wear Plain clothing, don’t use electricity, and keep the old traditions. They have nightly devotions with the German Bible and try to hold preaching every other Sunday, even though they have no district.”
“They didn’t turn English when they were banned?”
“No. They still kept their faith.”