Grandfather Zook stamped his crutches on the ground. “That’s Deacon Sutter’s work. He—”
“Let’s not speak of this here.” Mr. Troyer’s tone left no room for debate. “My wife has an evening meal waiting for us back home.”
Mrs. Troyer patted my shoulder. “You, Timothy, and Becky are welcome to join us.” She seemed more at ease now that she would have the opportunity to feed her family. She was much like Ellie in that way. However, that was the only characteristic shared by the quiet woman and the flamboyant restaurant and flea market owner.
Timothy took hold of the wheelchair’s handlebars. “Let’s get you to the buggy.”
“I can walk.” Grandfather Zook pushed himself out of the chair and toppled forward. Mr. Troyer and Timothy steadied him. “Whoa,” Grandfather Zook grunted. “I must be more shook up than I thought.”
Because of the cold, Grandfather Zook rode with Timothy in his truck. Mr. and Mrs. Troyer went home in their buggy, and Becky drove Sparky and Grandfather Zook’s buggy home. I left my car in the hospital lot and rode with Becky.
The hot brick Grandfather Zook placed at his feet for warmth had long since lost its heat. I piled lap blankets over Becky and me and pulled my stocking cap farther down over my ears.
Becky flicked the reins and we backed away from the hitching post. She eased the buggy onto Coshocton Avenue, which was the center of shopping and businesses in the county. “This feels strange.”
“What happened to Grandfather Zook?”
“Yes.” She pulled Sparky to a stop at a traffic light and in front of a McDonald’s. “But I meant driving the buggy. I’ve driven this buggy hundreds of times but not in months and never wearing jeans.”
The light changed, and she made a clicking sound at Sparky. “Until I sat on the seat, I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”
“That can’t be the only part of being Amish you miss.”
“It’s not. I miss seeing my family every day and Maam’s meals. I even miss milking the cows.” She laughed. “I don’t miss the cows that much, but I guess I miss the routine. The cows were always there needing to be milked twice a day. It was something I could rely on. Now, everyday is different.”
“Is variety a bad thing?”
“No, just different.” Street light reflected off her teeth when she grinned. “And now that I found the cable television, I don’t know how I could ever go back to being Amish.”
I laughed and snuggled deeper under the blankets. “What’s Thanksgiving like at your house?”
“It’s the best.” Becky went on to describe all the food, detailing the ingredients and preparations for each dish.
We stopped at the final traffic light on Coshocton, and Sparky knew his way home and pulled the buggy into the left turn lane. A pickup pulled up next to us in the right turn lane. It was green. I grew still as Becky chattered about pickling.
I felt the driver of the green pickup watching me. As if my neck had a will of its own, it turned my head.
Curt Fanning stared back at me. His dirty goatee was scruffier than before, and the features of his angular face were sharper as if he had both lost weight and aged beyond his twenty-five years while in prison. The red glow of the traffic light reflected off of his father’s dog tags hanging around his neck.
A slow smile spread across Curt’s face. He puckered his lips and made a kissy at me. I recoiled. He turned right on red and was gone.
I stared straight ahead. The light changed and Sparky took the left turn. Blissfully unaware, Becky was describing the proper consistency of turkey gravy.
My heart felt like it would beat out of my chest. I inhaled and exhaled long, deep breaths as quietly as I could.
Chapter Fifteen
In the Troyer horse barn, Becky covered Sparky with a wool horse blanket. She scratched the white star in the middle of his forehead, and he leaned into her touch like a cat. “You did gut, Spark. You probably saved Grossdaddi today. You deserve a big bag of carrots.”
Sparky whinnied.
We entered the Troyer home from the back door, which opened into a small mudroom. On the other side of the mudroom was the center of the home, Mrs. Troyer’s kitchen. The Amish mother spent the majority of her day in this space. It was where she cooked, baked, canned, ironed clothing, and sewed at the large table. Now that I thought about it, every time I visited the Troyer farm, Mrs. Troyer was in the kitchen working, no matter the time of day.
The kitchen had all the appliances an Amish woman, or an English woman for that matter, would need. The refrigerator and stove were powered by propane. The sink had running water. Jars of canned goods lined the shelves of the beautifully-made Amish hutch in the corner of the room, and hand-embroidered tea towels hung from the oven door handle.
While Mrs. Troyer was at the hospital, Ruth, Becky’s thirteen-year-old sister, kept the evening meal warm on the propane stove. The girl, who looked more like Becky every day, stirred what looked like stew in the huge cast iron pot on a front burner. Although her light blonde hair and features were like Becky’s, her expression resembled her father’s stony glare.
I pulled off my gloves. “Hi, Ruth.”
She only nodded.
My forehead creased.
Thomas zoomed over to me and took my coat. “Chloe, you came. Gut!” He took Becky’s coat too.
A smile broke out on my face. The seven-year-old bounced out of the room, dragging our coats on the floor. He was back before I could take another step.
“Thomas, don’t run,” Mrs. Troyer admonished the boy. Thomas slowed his pace just a tad as he fell onto the bench next to Grandfather Zook at the family’s long kitchen table. The table had pine benches on either side and paddle-backed chairs at the ends. The table ran the length of the kitchen, the largest room in the Troyer home, and could seat up to twelve people. Grandfather Zook sat at one end of the table, warming his hands on a large mug of coffee. The jagged edge of his beard had already been trimmed. “What took you two so long?”
Becky rolled her eyes and gave her grandfather a hug before helping Ruth and her mother finish preparing the meal.
Mrs. Troyer moved around her kitchen with confidence she never displayed outside of the safety of her own home.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
Like I knew she would, she shook her head. “You’re a guest.”
I wondered if there would ever be a time when I would no longer be considered a guest.
Timothy sat closest to the wall, and I was struck by how well he seemed to fit in to this place. I bit my lip. Did he miss being part of the Amish like Becky did? Would he ever want to go back? As much as I cared for him, I knew a transition from English to Amish was one I could never make.
Naomi, the youngest Troyer, who had just turned four, was curled up on Timothy’s lap. She looked up at me with watery blue eyes. She clutched her faceless doll under her arm and said something in Pennsylvania Dutch to Timothy. She was still a year from school. The little English she knew she learned from her brothers and sisters. When I visited the Troyer farm, they often spoke English so that I could understand. She gave me a small smile and murmured, “Chloe here.”
My heart melted.
Ruth and Becky buzzed about the room, setting the table. Mr. Troyer was absent.
“My son-in-law is checking on the cows,” Grandfather Zook said as if he read my mind. He patted the empty bench seat next to him. “Chloe, you sit right here next to me. The women will knock you down if you get in their way.”
Ruth flew by me with a crock of stew. Grandfather Zook was right.
Thomas wiggled in his seat. “I’m glad that Sparky took a bite out of the perp.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Apparently, Grandfather Zook had shared his new favorite English word with the children.
“Thomas!” Mr. T
royer’s voice cracked like a whip as he stepped into the room. “There will be none of that. The Lord commands us to forgive.”
Thomas dropped his head. “Ya, Daed.”
Mr. Troyer held the door open as he removed his work boots in the mudroom. A cold burst of wintry air blew through the kitchen. A paper napkin on the table took flight, and Naomi giggled into Timothy’s shoulder. He whispered something to her in their language, and her giggles increased.
The door slammed shut after Mr. Troyer entered room. He washed his hands at the sink.
“How do you think my trim looks?” Grandfather Zook scratched his chin and turned it back and forth, so that I could have a good look at it. “My beard hasn’t been this short since I was Becky’s age.”
“You look distinguished,” I whispered, knowing that Mr. Troyer would not approve of my praising the shorter beard.
He grinned. “I think so too. It will grow back better than ever.” He lowered his voice. “I do have one of the best beards in the county. This is probably why I was singled out. Beard jealously.”
I smiled, but my tone was serious. “Are you sure you weren’t hurt? It must have been frightening.”
“It was a shock, that’s for sure. I only have a few bruises, nothing a pack of ice and a hot water bottle can’t mend.”
Ruth slammed a basket of rolls on the table between Grandfather Zook and me. Several fell out of the basket, and I quickly put them back. I raised my eyebrow at Grandfather Zook. He shook his head.
Carefully, Becky placed a large tureen of stew in the middle of table, and the Troyer women took their seats. Mr. Troyer said grace in their language, and Becky whispered the translation into my ear, “And comfort the Young family during this time of loss.” Stew, rolls, biscuits, and mixed vegetables were passed around the table.
Ruth’s smooth brow crinkled. “What’s wrong with the Young family?”
Mr. and Mrs. Troyer shared a look across the table. “Ezekiel Young passed away yesterday.”
Ruth frowned. “I didn’t know he was sick. I saw him a few weeks ago when I delivered cheese to Young’s and he was fine.”
“He wasn’t sick,” Becky said.
Ruth’s head snapped around in her sister’s direction. “What would you know about it?”
Becky gripped her spoon. “I work at the Young’s restaurant and saw Ezekiel almost everyday. He wasn’t sick.”
“Then, what happened?” Ruth looked to her parents for the answer. “Was there an accident?”
“Let’s not speak of it in front of the younger children,” Mrs. Troyer said.
Ruth’s lower lip protruded from her mouth. “We can never speak of anything because of the children.”
“Ruth,” her father’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “That is enough.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “No one will talk to me about anything. I’m tired of it.”
Her father slammed his coffee mug on the table. “Ruth, you’re excused from the table.”
She opened her mouth and then closed it. “Fine.” She picked up her dish, walked it over to the sink, and stalked from the room.
We ate in silence for several minutes. Both Naomi and Thomas kept their heads down. Mrs. Troyer touched her youngest son’s arm. “If you’re finished, take Naomi upstairs to play.”
He nodded and pulled his little sister from the room. Before they left, Naomi gave Becky, Timothy, and me each a goodbye kiss.
Mrs. Troyer began to clear away the children’s dishes. She had barely touched her food.
“Why is Ruth so upset?” Timothy asked.
Mr. Troyer’s brow furrowed.
Grandfather Zook buttered a roll. “Anna Lambright’s parents won’t let the girls see each other.”
I frowned. Anna was Ruth’s best friend.
“Why not?” Becky asked.
“The bishop believes our family is a poor example to the district.” Grandfather Zook broke off a piece of his roll and held it. “And we may lead others away from the Amish way.” He tossed the bite of roll into his mouth.
Becky’s mouth fell open. “Who have you led from the Amish way?”
“You.”
Becky’s head jerked back.
Grandfather Zook sighed. “And Timothy. Had we have been a more Amish family, you would not have chosen to leave.”
“Are you being shunned?” Timothy asked.
“Nee,” Mrs. Troyer said as she retook her seat.
Becky’s forehead creased. “What does the bishop expect of you? Does he think we will come back?”
Mrs. Troyer moved food around her plate with the back of her fork.
“No,” Mr. Troyer said. “But he wants us to be more Amish.”
“How much more Amish could you get?” Becky asked.
Mr. Troyer sipped his coffee. “The first step is distancing ourselves from you and Timothy.” He glanced at me. “And Chloe.”
Tears welled in Becky’s eyes. “What?”
Mr. Troyer’s typically stern face softened. “I’m sure this is only temporary until the new bishop finds his way. When he is in charge of the district for some time, he will see there’s no danger in seeing Englisch children. Until then, we need to limit how often you come to the house.”
Timothy gripped his spoon so tightly the edge made an indentation in his skin. “How long is temporary?”
“A few months, until we can prove to the bishop we have taken his guidance to heart.” Mr. Troyer set the dinner roll he was about to take a bite from back on his plate as if he had lost his appetite. I knew I had lost mine.
Becky’s eyes welled with tears. “It’s because of me, isn’t it? Even though I left the church, it’s still trying to control me by hurting you.”
Mrs. Troyer wrung her hands. “The bishop said—”
“It wasn’t the bishop.” Timothy clenched his jaw. “Deacon Sutter is behind this. He was with the bishop when he delivered the news, wasn’t he?”
Since moving to Appleseed Creek, I’d received a crash course in Amish governance. The bishop was the head of the district and set the rules. Each district had its own bishop. Rules varied between districts depending on who the bishop was since everything was at his discretion. Much had changed in the Appleseed Creek district because Bishop Glick had been a relatively liberal bishop. Apparently, Bishop Hooley was not. The deacon was the district’s enforcer. He was the one who made sure everyone followed the rules that the bishop established.
Timothy’s mother wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Your father is right. The bishop will relax his rules after a time. Bishop Glick never shunned anyone over seeing their Englisch children.”
Becky gnawed on her lower lip. “I thought you said you weren’t being shunned.”
Her father’s brow furrowed. “We’re not. Yet.”
His announcement fell like a lead weight in the middle of the table. The implication being that the family would be shunned if Becky, Timothy, and I continued to visit them.
“We aren’t dealing with Bishop Glick anymore.” Timothy placed his hands on the table. “He’s dead. Deacon Sutter will hurt our family anyway that he can. He is using Bishop Hooley as his puppet. He must be thrilled he finally has a bishop who will make the rules he wants to enforce.”
Mr. Troyer glared at his son. “Don’t speak of the deacon that way in my house.”
“But Daed—”
“He’s a leader in the community and deserves respect.” His father’s face softened. “Gott will help us, but we must obey the rules even if we don’t agree with them.”
“What about Thanksgiving?” Becky cried.
Mrs. Troyer dropped a dish, and it shattered on the floor. “Es dutt mir leed,” she apologized and knelt on the floor to began picking up the ceramic pieces.
I sprang from my seat. “Let me.” I crouched on the floor next to her.
“Nee, it is my fault.”
I placed a hand over hers. “Please.”
She nodded and stood.
Grandfather Zook stamped the end of his butter knife on the table. “Thanksgiving is different. You will come here. Martha makes a meal like no other.”
Mr. Troyer gripped his coffee mug. “The bishop . . .”
“I don’t care what the bishop said. It’s a holiday. We can start obeying his rule after Thanksgiving.” The older man folded his arms across his chest as if the issue were settled.
Mr. Troyer’s brows knit together and his nostrils flared.
Grandfather stirred milk into his coffee. “Besides the Glick-Yoder wedding is on Thanksgiving. The whole district will be there. They’ll be too busy to worry about us.”
“You’re not going to the wedding?” Timothy asked.
“No, we’re not.” Mr. Troyer’s voice clearly said he didn’t want to talk about the Glick-Yoder wedding.
Mrs. Troyer stared at her husband as if pleading with him. His stern expression softened just a tad. “Fine. They can come for Thanksgiving.” He didn’t look at me but added, “Chloe too.”
A grin spread across Grandfather Zook’s face. “Chloe, will you help me into the living room? I’d like to sit a spell.”
I stood and helped him into his crutches, then took his elbow as we shuffled into the adjoining room. I set him on a gray armchair and placed his feet on an ottoman. He settled into the seat. “Much better.”
“Grandfather Zook, can you tell me anything more about the person who cut off your beard?”
“What do you want to know?”
“You said Sparky bit the man’s shoulder. You think the attacker was a man?”
He touched his short whiskers. “Yes, it sounded like a man when he cried out.”
“How big was he?”
“I can’t say. Are you helping the lady police officer again?”
I didn’t answer his question directly. “Could what happened to you be related to Ezekiel’s murder and the attack on the four Amish girls?”
Appleseed Creek Trilogy, Books 1-3 Page 37