by Linda Byler
Afterwards, they washed the milkers together, and Sarah swept the cement floor, carefully rinsing it with clean water. She smiled at Lee and said, “Let’s go make breakfast.”
But Lee was staring at her with a strange look on his face. And he stood rooted to his position by the bulk tank.
“What?” she asked innocently.
“I am in disbelief. Besides being beautiful and kind and sweet, you’re a real workaholic.”
“Oh no, Lee. This is the first time I ever helped you do the milking. I was trying to make an impression. It might not always be this way,” she laughed.
“But do you like milking? Farming? It’s terribly hard work for a girl.”
“Oh, it’s not. I love it. It’s all I know. I’ve been a farm girl all my life.”
He closed the gap between them, folded her gently, with a sort of reverence, into his strong arms, and held her.
The milk house door was suddenly yanked open, and Anna stuck her head in.
“Whoopsie! Sorry! Hey, if this is how it’s going to be, and I run into this kind of situation all the time, you’re going to have to set up a beeper or something. Like a flare at an accident, some kind of warning.”
But she was laughing, and Lee introduced Sarah to her as the new Mrs. Lee Glick, outstanding farmer of the year. Sarah smiled, then laughed, and said, “Oh, come on.” But the pleasure of his approval stayed with her all morning, creating a smile that fairly glistened, until Anna said she had never known her teeth were so white. Sarah replied that Anna had just never seen them for such an extended period of time.
CHAPTER 15
AS ALWAYS, WHEN EVERYONE WAS LEAST EXPECTING it, a small white car drove up to the house. No one could predict exactly who the caller was, although Levi said his heartbeat was getting heavy—that car was the same one that drove in the lane the night the barn burned to the ground, or would have if the firemen hadn’t soaked it.
Dat listened halfheartedly, watching warily. Sarah scraped a residue of meatloaf from the supper plates and leaned over to catch a glimpse for herself. Priscilla said that—sure enough—it was the car Levi had always described, and Suzie said perhaps they should all run to the basement—what if he had a gun?
They all tried to make light of the white car’s arrival, but even Dat’s face blanched when the car door opened. A gangly, unkempt youth unfolded his long limbs and stood uncertainly, one hand clutching the door handle, as if he would rather reopen the door and fold himself back inside.
He was dressed in torn jeans and an old sweatshirt of a nondescript color with the sleeves hacked off. A cap sat low on his forehead, stray hair erupting around it like brush bristles.
Levi said this was too scary for him and he was going to his room. But as soon as he saw all the windows in his room, he felt exposed and shuffled back to the safety of the recliner. He sat down solidly, watching with a stony expression.
Finally, when Dat wondered if he should go out and invite him in, the young man began a wary walk up to the porch, his focus mostly on the sidewalk.
At the first rapping sound, Dat went to the door, opened it, and stepped outside, perhaps to protect his family, perhaps for privacy. Sarah couldn’t tell. She was surprised when Dat opened the kitchen door and ushered the visitor inside.
Quickly, Mam pushed aside a few empty serving dishes and wiped the tabletop swiftly, murmuring excuses, casting furtive glances at the visitor with the intense black eyes.
But here was Dat, asking him to sit, so if Davey did that, she assumed he knew what he was doing. But Mam still felt so ill at ease that she scrubbed all the pots and pans so vigorously that they shone like a mirror the remainder of the week.
Sarah went to the sink, finding safety in turning her back. She concentrated on the simple task of helping Mam with the supper dishes. Her ears, however, were fine-tuned to words spoken by the two men.
Dat kept up a friendly conversation, until that ran out, sputtered, and died. Mam cleared her throat and cast a sideways glance at Sarah, who coughed involuntarily.
A steady thumping ensued as the youth bounced his one knee in furious repetition, his large gray sneaker steadily whacking the linoleum. He raked his soiled cap off his head and ran a hand through his unkempt hair.
Sarah turned halfway around and observed him closely. Yes. It was. He was the guy at the funeral home. Michael Lanvin. The arsonist?
His mouth was working, painfully. He ran a hand across the back of his neck, tugged at the neck of his sweatshirt. Beads of sweat appeared on his upper lip. He wiped them off with a shaking forefinger.
“Um, yeah, I’m like.”
He stopped, searching Dat’s face.
Dat remained steady, his gaze unknowing, calm, and unfazed, waiting for the youth to reveal what was on his mind.
Hadn’t Davey dealt with many youth, recognized guilt and its unfailing disciple, its lack of trust? So he waited.
“Yeah, um. . . .” Again, he stalled, unable to continue. “See, I, like, met you when she . . . Ashley . . . my girlfriend died. It was you, right?”
Dat nodded, a half smile of reassurance evident now.
“That was you, right?” he repeated.
“Yes, it was. I remember you,” Dat answered. “You seemed quite upset.”
“Yeah, I was, I guess.”
Another pause.
“Which one’s Sarah?” the youth asked suddenly.
Sarah stopped, motionless, and slowly put down the plate she was washing, watching the suds cover it. Drying her hands on her apron, she stepped forward, smiled slightly, and introduced herself.
“Hi,” he responded, “I’m him. Ashley’s boyfriend.”
Sarah nodded.
“I’m, well, how much did she tell you?”
“About what?”
“The fires.”
“Nothing. She was concerned about each family, cared about them.”
“She never said nothing about, you know?”
“No.”
Suddenly, he slid down in his chair so far Sarah thought he would slide off, but he splayed his feet, stopping himself.
“It wasn’t me.”
Sarah looked, found Dat’s eyes. His face was frozen, a granite profile.
“It was her dad. That guy at the leather goods place at the market. Not her real dad. I drove him around, but he lit the barns. He hates a guy named Aaron. Or he did. This guy died, but he’s never gotten over it.”
Dat nodded. “They caught him.”
“I know. But they think it’s me. He’ll lie. He won’t care if I go behind bars, as long as he can save his own skin.”
“I see,” Dat said quietly.
“Will you come to my hearing?”
Dat pondered the question without answering.
“I know you guys don’t do court appearances, but would you help me out? I’m . . . I don’t want to go again. Jail is not a good place.”
Finally Dat said, “I don’t know what to tell you.”
Sitting up straight, he leaned forward, pleading. “I’m in trouble, either way. What do they call it? I’m responsible as long as I hauled him around some of the time. Look, I got in too deep. I owed him money, lots of it. I couldn’t pay him back. I got into trouble, lost my job. It’s a mess. I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.”
“Is this Walters person in custody?”
“I doubt it. He has money.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“No. He’s a. . . .” Michael caught himself, sputtered, and looked pleadingly at Dat. “If you’d just come to my hearing, testify.”
“But all I have is your word.”
“No! No!”
Desperate now, Michael spoke rapidly. “You gave me a hug, at the viewing. You said God should bless me. Well, He didn’t. He can’t on His own, the way I figure, but if you were in the courtroom, God would be there, too.”
Dat shook his head. “No, Michael. I am not the go between you need. There is only One that came to earth, d
ied for you, and is in heaven on your behalf. He’s the One you need in the courtroom, not me.”
Bewildered, Michael lifted his eyes. “Who?”
“Jesus.”
“Oh, him.”
Embarrassed, Michael’s eyes slid away.
“Yeah, I remember my Sunday school teacher. I remember all that stuff.”
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
“So all you have to do is ask Him back into your life. He’ll come. He’ll be there for you.”
“Yeah, but. . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Are you sorry for what you did?”
“Well, of course. I wish I had never met Walters. Now Ashley’s dead, and I . . . I treated her wrong.”
There is nothing quite as shocking as the first ragged sob from a man who is truly at the end of his resources, Sarah thought, as the initial battered sound tore from his throat.
“She’s dead, and I can never fix it.”
He flopped against the tabletop, folded his arms, and dropped his head onto them, his shoulders heaving.
Silent as wraiths, Priscilla and Suzie left the room. Levi began crying, as he always did when he heard the sounds of a distressed person.
Sarah stood, uncertain. Dat laid a hand on the youth’s shoulder, his great calloused hand beginning a slow massage, an assurance of his presence.
“You are forgiven,” he said softly.
Still, Michael’s face remained buried in his arms, and his sobs did not lessen. If anything, they intensified.
“I can never make it right,” he repeated between hiccups.
Patiently, Dat explained the plan of salvation, urging Michael to accept forgiveness, share the yoke of sorrow with Jesus. He would carry it for him, relieve him of the shame and guilt. How much of it got through to him, Sarah did not know, but Michael’s crying ceased. Mam brought him a clean paper towel, which he accepted shamefacedly, muttering a garbled thanks.
In the end, he accepted the fact that Dat would not come to his hearing.
“You may not have much of one,” Dat said. “If the Amish people show their forgiveness, which I believe they will, you will have fines and penalties perhaps, but hopefully, no jail time.”
“I will. I deserve it. You know that.”
“We’ll see.”
When he rose to go, Dat did not shake hands, he simply pulled the young man into an embrace and released him. Keeping a hand on his shoulder, he said firmly, “We forgive you. Be a man now, and change your ways. You’ll come out of this a better person.”
“You think?”
“I think, definitely.”
“I need to. . . . I don’t have a Bible. I used to, you know, read it.”
“I’ll see that you get one. Stop by tomorrow night.”
Unbelievably, he did.
Sarah looked up from weeding the lima beans to find the small white car driving up to the house. She straightened, shaded her eyes with her hand, then laid down her hoe. Walking toward him, she smiled hesitantly.
“Michael. Good to see you!”
“Hey.”
“You came for the Bible?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll get it.”
“Where’s your dad?”
“He has a meeting tonight.”
“What meeting?”
Immediately, his eyes became hooded with suspicion.
“A meeting about the fires, the arsonist.”
David Beiler had known before he hitched Fred to the shining, freshly washed buggy that this would be the last meeting as far as the arsonist was concerned. He was in custody. And it was likely that Michael Lanvin would serve some time as well, although he couldn’t be sure.
The meeting would be fraught with argument, he knew. It would be like walking in a war zone, stumbling onto hidden land mines. Dangerous to the hearts and souls of men.
Always, church problems were the same. Maneuvering between the liberals and the conservatives required the wisdom of Solomon. Or more, he concluded to himself.
The leader of the liberals was Melvin, his own nephew, outspoken, charismatic, able to bend other men’s wills because of his ability to talk. He could make an expert salesman, selling innocent folks things they certainly did not need.
Melvin and his followers wanted revenge. They called it justice, which was only a nice word for it. In David’s opinion, to wish anyone ill, punishment, pain, anything, was a form of revenge. That was an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, the Old Testament teachings of the law.
When Jesus came, He brought a better way, but so few understood or trusted the form of love the ministers struggled to keep alive within the churches as well as without.
To forgive was the epitome of Christ’s message. So near to forgiveness, Davey had almost given up the whole gospel when Sarah was injured.
Never, as long as he lived, would he forget the pleading look in her eyes as she begged her father to help her, to free her from her pain. Watching as the doctors scraped the dead tissue from her exposed nerve endings left him weak and drained, completely helpless. That emotion was followed by a bitter wish for revenge, wanting to make the arsonist endure exactly what Sarah had gone through.
It was only human nature.
Tight-lipped men sat on benches around the long table in Sam Esh’s shop. They were dressed in colorful shirts with back vests and trousers, their straw hats on pegs along the wall. Some of the younger men wore shirts with a stripe and no vests, their patterned suspenders in stark relief against the distinctive shirts.
Those in the more modern, youthful dress, most of them asking for justice, would gladly enter a courtroom, testify, and press charges.
David was surprised to see Melvin dressed in a plain shirt and wearing a vest, his normally tousled hair combed down over his ears in a modest fashion. He felt a tug of amusement at the corner of his mouth. No doubt Lydia’s influence was taking hold already.
Good. That was good. She would be a grounding influence in his life. She was quiet and stable and would bring him back to earth if he went off on a far-flung rant, the way he tended to do.
The meeting opened with a silent prayer, time well spent as David laid his heart open for God to examine. Thy will be done. Amen.
Sam Esh was the main speaker, having had more interaction with the law and the media than anyone else.
He began quietly, a humble man. It was hard to stand up and face the prying eyes of men who were in disagreement.
He was a man of common sense, and as he spoke, this quality emerged, his voice gained momentum, and assurance broke through as his voice carried well to the far reaches of the room.
“We all want this man behind bars, for our own safety. As of now, he’ll go there, whether we testify or not. He was caught, doing the grisly work he’s been doing for a couple of years, and there’s not much we’re going to do to change that. The law is the law. I spoke to the local police, and they’re guessing he’ll get between five and ten years.”
Immediately, murmurs erupted, hands were raised.
“He’d get more than that if we testified.”
“Is that all?”
“You know he’ll be out in two, the way court cases go.”
“Bunch of crooks.”
“It ain’t right.”
David Beiler sat and listened, his heart dropping with a sickening thud. So this was what he’d be up against. This thirst for revenge.
“Two years from now, the barn fires will start again.”
Sam Esh stood, silenced by the outrage, his face flaming with discomfiture.
Melvin raised his hand. Sam nodded toward him.
Melvin stood.
“See, this is our trouble. We’re gullible people who don’t understand the law. Anyone can feed us anything, and we believe it. I talked to a lawyer and got the real deal.”
David cringed at his arrogance, his superiority.
“If we testify, he told me, we can change the course of the court’
s decision.”
Melvin paused for emphasis.
David noticed the worshipful demeanors on the faces of the younger men and wondered anew at the necessity of God telling the children of Israel to support the arms of Moses in battle. As long as Moses’s arms were held up by his people, their armies had the victory.
Here, tonight, it was the same scenario, but in spirit. When Godly leaders had the support of the people, there was a blessing in the land.
He inhaled deeply, steadied himself, kept his silence, and allowed Melvin to ramble on, using words from his lawyer’s book that very few of these simple, Plain men understood. Perhaps this was good.
After Melvin sat down, there were murmurs of agreement.
Samuel Riehl stood and elaborated on Melvin’s views.
Old Dan Dienner asked for time, was given it, and David took another calming breath. Dan had never been known for patience and often lacked forbearance. He was a mighty little warrior carrying the spear of his own highly esteemed opinion.
Dan’s words were scathing, his bushy gray eyebrows drawn down like angry caterpillars. His mouth snapped open and closed as if elastic controlled his jaws after every hurtful sentence had been released. His words swirled about the room bringing each rebellious nature to fruition.
David watched sadly as a few younger men stood up, grabbed their hats, and strode smartly from the room, angered by Dan Dienner’s fiery words.
The meeting stalled when the old minister sat down. Unease crept beneath the chairs. Men settled themselves in different positions, feet scraped fitfully on the cement floor, throats were cleared, and here and there a self-conscious cough erupted.
They called on Davey Beila. His limbs were heavy, burdened by the fractious atmosphere. Slowly, like a sorrowful old man, he stood.
“Would someone ask the men that left the room to return, please?”
That was his first concern. They were the church of tomorrow. Personal opinion was meaningless, when it came to fer-sarking (caring for) the church of the future.