When he stood to leave the room, her eyes bore into him as they had all afternoon, willing him to understand. He understood. Her decisions had affected their lives like a cancer, and finally admitting what she’d done had not brought them closer. She seemed to think it should. After years of manipulating him through her silence and actions, she wanted him to understand and accept.
He went to the dresser, picked up the kerosene lantern, and motioned for her to leave the room. They walked into the hallway, and he passed the lantern to her. “Good night, Elsie.” He turned to go into his room.
“You’re furious with me.”
Her words stopped him, and he stayed put as she went into her room and set the lantern on the nightstand. “I did what I thought was right. But even if I was wrong, this is how you forgive?”
She didn’t get it, might not ever, and he couldn’t make her. Remaining in the hallway with her standing beside her bed, he pulled the door closed. That door was the least of what blocked them from each other. She needed things from him he didn’t possess—a way to build a bridge to cross the gulf that separated them. If he’d known how to build one, he’d have done it long, long ago. If one existed for him to cross over to her right now, he might burn it himself.
He walked to his back porch and took a seat on the stoop. The dark October air had a little nip to it. Voices carried from across the back field and beyond the creek bed. Allen’s home sat on that piece of property. Like a lot of evenings, his friend’s place was a bustle of activity.
“God, help me. I … I’m so angry with her.” He put his head in his hands, torn between seeing his own faults and the bitterness he felt toward Elsie.
The back door squeaked as Elsie opened it. She stepped outside and pressed her back against the house, staring off in the distance. “I … I finally opened up, and now you’re really angry. It’s not fair, Grey.”
Bitter thoughts washed over him. The moment Ivan was born missing part of one arm, fear began growing inside her. She should have told him … or at least someone.
She removed her Sunday apron. “What do you plan to do?”
“About us? I’m going to need some time. But I have a plan concerning Ivan and school.”
She walked down the few steps and onto the grass before turning to face him. “He’ll thrive in the Lancaster school for the handicapped. I know he will. And those children won’t make fun of him. Rather than being at the bottom of the rung, he’ll be at the top. Don’t you want that for your son?”
“I want Lena to work with him.”
“Lena?” Elsie scoffed. “She does not know Ivan like I do.”
“She’s the best teacher this district has ever had and my guess is probably the best Amish teacher in the state.”
“Just because she attended a public school for a while doesn’t make her a great teacher.”
“Her reason for going is what makes the difference. She wanted to learn all she could so she’d be a good teacher. And she was a teacher’s assistant of some type in a classroom for special-needs students. I trust that she’ll know where Ivan should attend better than either of us does.”
“You have that much confidence in her?”
“Ya.”
“I worry she’ll pick my mothering skills to pieces, given the chance. But if you’re wanting an honest opinion, I’ve never seen her shy from speaking her mind when asked.”
“You’re afraid Lena will judge you? That’s not her way. And you can’t go on letting fear rule you and our family.” Grey shifted. “Until today I didn’t realize that’s what holds us captive. But you did.”
“You say that as though fear is some shadow that can be dispelled at will.”
“And you treat it like it’s a god to revere and bow down to.”
“If Ivan is under her, she’ll … know.”
“Know?” That eerie feeling ran through him again, as if alerting him that what she was trying to say was important. “Know what?”
“About us … where you sleep.”
How had he lived with her all these years and not known she was afraid of everything? “Ivan doesn’t even know.”
“But he will, given time.”
While anger rumbled, he prayed. She had manipulated too much of their lives in order to hide her fears. No wonder she kept her distance emotionally as well as physically. She didn’t want him to object to her reasoning.
One of the children at Allen’s place let out a horrifying scream. “Nee! Helf.”
Grey rose and moved closer to the creek bank.
Phoebe. Allen’s youngest daughter. Grey stood too far away to see if she was hurt. Lennie flew out of her brother’s house, running barefoot and like wildfire toward Phoebe. Lennie grabbed her up, clearly checking her out and talking to her. Phoebe wrapped her arms and legs around Lennie, sobbing. More adults came from around the corners of the house or from inside, hurrying toward the wailing. When Allen arrived, Lennie passed Phoebe to her Daed.
“Should you go?” Elsie asked.
The creek that separated their properties was fairly wide and deep. The only way to cross it was by horse. “I don’t think so.”
Allen looked up and waved. “Phoebe saw a raccoon coming toward her. We’re fine.”
“Okay, thanks,” Grey hollered.
Phoebe raised her head and looked toward them. She hollered in Pennsylvania Dutch that she wasn’t fine and that if Grey saw that thing again, he was to shoot it.
Allen laughed and patted her back. Soon the adults had rounded up all the children and taken them inside.
“You think it could be a rabid raccoon?”
“Doubtful. It obviously ran off when she screamed. It’s a nocturnal creature hunting for food.”
Elsie stood in the darkness, studying the sky. “Or God trying to tell me something I should have already known.”
He didn’t know what she meant, but he wouldn’t bother to ask.
Tears welled in her eyes. “I didn’t want you to know my genes were poor ones. I … I’m sorry.”
Beyond her tears, he saw her self-righteousness begin to break, and a dusting of forgiveness settled over his heart.
Under the starless night, Dwayne studied Lena’s house. The chilly air seeped through his clothing. A dog perched its paws on a second-story windowsill and barked at him through a closed window. Dwayne set his toolbox next to the tree and stayed put, not caring what fit the dog threw. If they let the mutt outside, he’d slice its throat.
A woman came to the window, but the dark night shrouded his view. It was probably the stupid teacher herself. As far as he knew, only she and her Daed lived here. She opened the glass pane. The girl was an idiot and an ugly thorn in his flesh. He didn’t put up with thorns. She seemed to spot him, and he propped against the tree and lit a cigarette.
He intended to get even, and she might as well know it now. Picking on his brother in class. Taking the watch back. That awful cake she brought to the cabin. It had to be poison, and Aaron refused to say a word about it to her. He said he knew Lena and it must be a joke of some type.
Dwayne spat on the ground. She knew exactly what she was doing, and so did he.
As he looked at her, new plans floated to him out of thin air. Deciding that a low profile would profit him more than giving himself away, he grabbed his toolbox and got off their property.
He walked the two miles to the schoolhouse and looked around. The playground was a perfect setting for causing trouble. He set his toolbox down, pulled out a pair of tin snips, and began working away at the chains that held up the swings. It might take a few times of someone swinging before the chain broke, but when it did, somebody would be hurt, and poor Teacher Lena would answer for it. It wasn’t much, but it seemed like a perfect opening chapter to what he intended to be a very long book.
A cat meowed, drawing his attention. He tossed the tin snips into the toolbox. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” The creature slowly came to him. Its soft, warm fur felt good against his
cold hands. The cat purred as he rubbed her ears. “What are you doing hanging around an empty school? Maybe you’ve been out catching field mice. Now that you’ve seen me, you won’t tell, will you?” He laughed and reached for the knife in his pocket. “I think not.”
Twelve
Lena brought her horse to a stop near the schoolhouse barn. “Zerick.” She repeated the word as the horse backed up until the small cart she’d ridden in today stood under the lean-to. The brisk ride in an open rig had done wonders for her. She’d finally shaken that eerie feeling she’d had since seeing a man staring at her house during the wee hours of the morning. Probably a drunk. Possibly a Peeping Tom. Usually both were harmless.
A fresh week lay ahead of her. The air smelled like fall, and leaves had begun to change color. She put her old mare in its small pasture, the one designed just for the teacher’s horse. After she grabbed her goodies off the seat of the cart, she hurried into the school, wanting to get a fire started in the potbelly stove. Her scholars loved putting their lunches near a warm stove in cool weather. It wouldn’t be cold enough to build a roaring fire and bank embers today—just a little one to knock the chill out of the air. But she’d brought homemade chocolate chip cookies, and when those got warm from sitting on the stove, she’d have a treat her scholars would work hard to earn.
She built the first fire of the year in her faithful old stove. After she set the cookie tin on top, she went to each student’s desk and opened the spiral-bound notebook left there for her. She read the entries and left smiley faces, asked humorous questions, and shared a thought or two. These works didn’t get a grade. Her students wrote to her whatever they wanted to, and she responded. Some wrote the beginning to made-up stories, and she’d finish the tale. Others shared events from their own life, but they didn’t tell the whole story. That was her job. Their goal was to stump her so that the real ending was nothing like what she wrote. When they read them aloud, they shared the real ending and then read what she’d written. Their laughter never rang as loudly as when they read her responses. The older ones knew she cloaked her responses under the pretense of telling what probably took place. She spun yarns in hopes of making them love writing, reading, and using their imaginations.
She sat at Peter’s desk, bracing herself for what he’d written to her.
I rided down the road on my way home aftr scool when I saw my teacher in her yard plantin more flowers. I hate flowers. I’d ruther be tended to than tend to somethin. But the teach must like them. They don’t like her. I know this cuz …
Wow. That wasn’t a bad entry at all. Nothing biting or threatening. That improvement alone refreshed her. He’d written several sentences and spelled correctly most of the words she’d been working with him on. Definite improvement.
She tapped her pencil on the paper. Hmm. I know this cuz …
“Think, Lena.” She put her pencil on the paper, hoping an answer would come that he’d enjoy.
I know this cuz … one day the petunias ran away from her and chased after me.
Peter, Peter, petunia hater,
Didn’t want flowers, but wanted something greater
Teacher Lena chased them down
When she caught them, they wilted to the ground.
“That’s not good enough, Lena. Kumm uff, think.” She tapped her pencil on the paper, looking about the room for inspiration. Surely she could think of a better little ditty than—
She noticed a pool of liquid under her desk. She stood and moved in closer. When she rounded the side of her table, she saw a white cat in her chair, covered in its own blood. The thick red syrup dripped onto the floor, making Lena’s skin crawl. Her mouth went dry, and her body shook. Who would do such a thing?
Feeling dizzy and sick, she eased up to it and touched it. She jerked back, appalled at how death felt. Its stiff body sickened her, and she ran outside for fresh air. Teachers had some awfully mean tricks pulled on them at times, usually by the older boys in school or the ones who’d graduated not long ago. Drawing cool air into her lungs, she knew what had to be done—and before her students arrived. Ignoring her desire to sit down and cry, she hurried to the lean-to and grabbed a shovel and old towels that were usually reserved for craft days.
On the verge of being sick to her stomach, she moved the cat’s body onto the blade of the shovel and carried it outside. Her body disobeyed her, trembling as she walked across the gravel driveway and to the far side of the lean-to. It seemed like the best burial spot. If anyone passed by while she dug the grave, they weren’t likely to spot her between the huge tree and the far side of the lean-to. She eased the cat’s body onto the ground and returned to her classroom. The next step was no easier—mopping up its blood. Trying to hurry so she could bury the cat and the bloody towels before anyone arrived, she couldn’t keep her tears at bay.
Who would do this and why?
The older boys, and sometimes girls, could be pretty spiteful—seemingly angered by Amish restrictions and spurred into action by wild hormones, pettiness, and immaturity. But of all the nasty things she’d heard of over the years, mutilating someone’s pet and leaving it bleeding in a teacher’s chair was beyond normal. An occasional squirrel or deer’s head might greet an unsuspecting teacher on the steps leading to the school. But someone’s pet? She shuddered, trying to reason out who might’ve done this. The culprit could be from any district around here, not necessarily one of her students or former students. Even though she didn’t have grandiose sentiments of how some students felt about her, she found it hard to believe any of her students, past or present, had the type of cruelty to do this. Still, thoughts of Peter’s attitude toward her kept tumbling inside her. Surely he hadn’t. She saw good inside him. Of course she saw meanness too.
The eerie feeling didn’t leave her as she mopped up the blood and scrubbed the chair and floor until they looked clean again. After dumping the kindling out of its crate, she used it to carry the items outside. She grabbed the shovel and jammed it into the ground. Her body jolted, but the rocklike ground barely gave way. She slammed the blade into the edge of the earth again and again, making very little progress. Children’s voices filled the air as they walked toward the schoolhouse. Buggies came and went as parents dropped their children off.
Should she run to get one of the Daeds to help her? A man could make quick work of this solid ground, but then her scholars would find out for sure, and it’d cause days of emotional unrest. Doubtful of her best course of action, she kept digging, hoping no one came looking for her. Once past the hardest-packed dirt, she made better progress and managed to carve a decent-sized hole.
“Lena.” The door to the schoolhouse slammed as several scholars called to her. They’d begun hunting for her, but she needed only a few more minutes. Using the shovel, she tried to pick up the cat. She couldn’t get the blade under it.
“Kumm uff.” She tossed the shovel to the side and picked up the cat. As she laid it in the hole, Marilyn screamed. “Snowball! Why are you throwing my Snowball into the ground?”
The shrill sound of her youngest student’s voice caused others to come running. Lena knelt in front of her. “She … she died, sweetie.”
“No!” Tears streamed down the little girl’s face as she reached for her cat. Lena stopped her.
Marilyn pulled away from Lena. “You can’t throw my cat in the ground!”
Marilyn’s older brother pushed through the crowd. Levi’s emotions reflected across his nine-year-old face, and soon he was sobbing too. Lena directed them toward the schoolhouse. “Could one of you older boys please finish what I started?”
“What are we, your slaves?” Peter retorted.
Lena turned to Jacob, who gave a nod.
Lena knelt in front of Marilyn. “You need to go inside, but you can stay with Levi and sit on the reading couch. I’ll be inside in just a few minutes, okay?”
Marilyn nodded and clung to her brother, crying as they walked toward the schoolhouse.
; Lena lifted her head, ready to give loud instructions. “I want everyone to go inside and take a seat.”
The children headed in that direction while Lena went to the hand pump. She lifted the handle and lowered it several times before water gushed out. After grabbing the soap dispenser out of its bucket, she scrubbed her hands and arms with a fury that could not remove the filth of what was taking place.
Mandy came back outside with a towel in hand. “Marilyn can’t catch her breath. She seems to think you killed her cat, and she doesn’t want to be thrown into a hole with some bloody towels when she dies.”
Bracing herself for the long week ahead, Lena took the towel and dried her hands. “Let’s go see what can be done to console—”
A piercing yell sliced straight through Lena. Had Jacob hurt himself while burying the cat?
Jacob came from the side of the lean-to. “What’s wrong now?”
Too frazzled to even think, she headed for the playground area, followed by Mandy and Jacob. Elmer lay on the ground, crying. What was he doing out here? One glance at the swing set explained everything. The chain had broken, and based on where Elmer had landed, he’d been swinging really high.
“Stay put, and tell me what hurts.”
“My arm!”
“Okay, lie still for just a moment, and let’s make sure nothing else is hurt.” She made a quick assessment just like her Red Cross classes had taught her. After running through her checklist and getting reasonable answers, she helped him to his feet.
“It hurts! Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.” Elmer’s whining concerned her, but more than that, his hand had already begun to swell, and it had a slight blue tint to it.
“Can you move your fingers?”
As he wiggled them a little, her mind whirled with conflicting thoughts on what to do next. If she took him with her while going for help, someone else could get hurt, not to mention the emotional state Marilyn, Levi, and most of the class were in. Sending an older student might cause problems with the school board since she was on probation for a similar incident. Regardless of that, she couldn’t leave. If she let one of the older children drive Elmer to the closest phone, and they didn’t handle it like an adult, Elmer could have permanent damage done to his arm. Buggies hit potholes. Cars spooked horses. And if, in their nervousness, they drove too fast or too carelessly, more than just a child’s limb could be in danger. She’d seen far too many incidents of that sort in her lifetime.
The Bridge of Peace Page 10