The Preacher's Daughter

by Patricia Johns

  “Lizzie, you need to be careful around that man,” Isaiah said, lowering his voice. “He’s an ex-con. He’s done a crime bad enough for Englishers to put him in jail, and he’s back. He has nowhere else to go! But how long until he ends up in his old habits?”

  “You got a second chance with a job at the book bindery,” Elizabeth said softly. “That job made all the difference for you.”

  “It was our daet who broke the law, not me,” he replied.

  She sighed. “So you won’t help him, then?”

  “No.” Isaiah shook his head. “I have a family to protect, too, Lizzie. What if I asked my father-in-law to give him a job and Solomon’s old friends robbed the place?”

  “Where is he supposed to find a job, then?” she asked. “If his friends won’t help—”

  “I’m not his friend!” Isaiah replied, and he sighed. “Lizzie, you have a really good heart. You do. But you can’t risk your own reputation with trying to help him. We have enough over our heads with our own father.”

  There was no point arguing. The problem was, she completely understood her brother’s position. If she hadn’t gotten to know Solomon again, she’d share it just as vehemently.

  “I just thought I’d ask,” she said.

  “And speaking of Daet,” he added, his voice lowering further. He took a step closer and glanced around before continuing. “I got a letter from him in yesterday’s mail.”

  “Oh?” She frowned, and the look on her brother’s face made her pulse speed up.

  “He’s getting out of jail,” he whispered.

  Elizabeth’s heart pounded to a stop and she stared, openmouthed, at her brother. “What?”

  “He’s getting out early on good behavior,” Isaiah said. “And he’s coming home . . .”

  “There is no more family home!” she said. “The farm is gone. Where is he going to stay?”

  “My place,” her brother replied. “For now.”

  “Do you want him at your place?” she breathed. “Is Bethany okay with it?”

  “What other choice do I have?” Isaiah asked.

  “So she doesn’t like it,” Elizabeth concluded.

  “Even I don’t like it!” Isaiah retorted. “I don’t think you would either. But we’re doing our duty. The bishop says it’s all right so long as Daet is ready to confess his sin and face the consequences. So you see why we can’t be helping out the other ex-con in town. We have enough problems of our own, Lizzie. Someone else will have to help Solomon.”

  “When is Daet coming?” she asked weakly.

  “Tomorrow. I’ll pick him up from the bus depot.”

  Elizabeth nodded, and she felt her throat close off with emotion. She didn’t want to see her father right now. She hadn’t prepared herself for it. Sure, she’d read his letters and grappled with her feelings about what he’d done, and about trying to forgive him, but that was hard enough with her father locked up. But he was coming back . . . very soon! Could she look him in the face? Could she even be glad he was out?

  “What did he say in the letter?” she whispered. “I mean . . . what is he expecting from us?”

  “He says he misses us terribly,” Isaiah replied. “He reminded us about old times, when we were happy as a family. He asks for our forgiveness.”

  She nodded. “It won’t be the same, though.”

  “Maybe once we face it, it’ll be easier,” Isaiah said. “That’s what I’m hoping, at least. It’ll be better than dreading it.”

  “Did you tell the bishop that he’s coming?” she asked.

  “I told him this morning,” her brother replied. “Whatever I do is with the bishop’s blessing. I’ve got a family reputation to protect, too, Lizzie.”

  “And if the bishop says he’s shunned and he has to leave?” she asked.

  Isaiah’s eyes misted. “Then he leaves.”

  The families were starting to split up now, the women headed to the women’s side of the tent and the men to the men’s side. Elizabeth stood there for a moment, her legs feeling leaden. Would Bridget want her to stay and help her if her father was back in the community?

  Isaiah reached out and squeezed her arm.

  “We’ll get through this,” her brother said. “But we have to take care of our own problems. You get that, right?”

  She nodded. “Yah.”

  There was no argument from her. Their problems had just multiplied. With Daet back, whatever bit of warmth had begun in the community would immediately be cut off because Daet had ruined the finances of more than one local family with that fraud. People might forgive on a spiritual level, but it wouldn’t be happening on a personal one.

  The Amish believed in their spiritual ideals, but at the end of the day they were human, too.

  Chapter Ten

  Solomon sat at the kitchen table that evening with a pair of leather boots courtesy of one of the neighbors. They were well worn, but with a good polish and buffing, they’d look better. He dipped the brush into the black polish and started brushing it over the leather in smooth strokes.

  “It’s Sunday, Sol,” Bridget said reproachfully.

  “I know, Mammi,” he said apologetically. “But keeping my hands busy makes me feel better.”

  Shoe polishing wasn’t necessary work, like caring for the animals, but it kept him from pacing a trench into the floor from his own nervous energy. Service Sunday had been difficult. The preaching had been long, and he wasn’t used to sitting on a hard bench, his back straight, for that amount of time anymore. The sermon topic had been dry, and his gaze kept moving over to where Elizabeth sat next to her sister-in-law, who held the sleeping baby in her lap. Elizabeth sat perfectly still, her expression creased with worry. And that had only made him wonder if that was because of him. Was he making her life that much more difficult?

  When they got back, they ate, and Solomon headed out to clean the stables only to find one horse had wandered off through a damaged part of the barbed-wire fence. He’d had to walk three miles down the road to find the mare and bring her back. After that he’d had to fix the fence, then there was dinner, and now he sat at the table with these boots in front of him, wondering if he looked as tattered on the outside as he felt on the inside. He hoped not. Tomorrow he needed to look for work and he didn’t want to give anyone reason to turn him down.

  Elizabeth was outside working in the garden, and for a few minutes at least he and his grandmother were alone.

  “Sol, when we stopped at the Hertzbergers’ place on the way home, I picked up something,” Bridget said. She opened a kitchen drawer and pulled out a cell phone, then placed it on the table next to his boots.

  “What’s this?” It was a flip phone—an old one.

  “I spoke with the bishop today, and he says that if Elizabeth used a cell phone in case of emergency at the stand, that would be all right,” Bridget said.

  “And you got one that quickly?” he asked with a frown. “Is there a rebellious streak in my grandmother I didn’t know about?”

  Bridget smiled at his wry humor and picked the phone back up. “Sarah Hertzberger used this when she had that difficult pregnancy. It’s a phone that has time already paid . . . I don’t quite understand it. But it’s supposed to be easy to use. She wrote down the phone number for us, and we can call the police if we need to. You see? You just type in the number for the police in here—9-1-1—”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?” he asked, plucking the phone from her hands. “And don’t press Send, Mammi. It’ll call them. You can’t do that if it isn’t an emergency.”

  “I was just—” Bridget sighed.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “I know how to use it.”

  Bridget brushed her hands down her apron. “Fine. You know how. That’s good. All the same, if I’m there at the produce stand myself, I’m sure those young men would behave.”

  “I don’t think it works that way for Englishers, Mammi,” he replied.

  “Do they hatch from eggs?” sh
e demanded archly. “They have mothers and grandmothers. A nice, stern look goes a long way.”

  Solomon sighed, trying to cap his frustration. He needed to find work, but he couldn’t leave them undefended here either. “Mammi, look, I’ll do it. I’ll man the stall. You and Elizabeth stay here at home. I’ll take the cell phone.”

  “If I knew those men’s mothers, I would take care of this easily enough,” she said with a sigh. “But I don’t. And I won’t be chased into my house out of fear of a few hooligans either.”

  “They’re grown men, Mammi.”

  “This is my life, Sol!” Her chin trembled. “This is my livelihood! What am I supposed to do, hide indoors? There will be no money for extras if I do that. We have a garden to harvest and produce to sell. That doesn’t go away because of some troublemakers.”

  Was she even listening to him? Did she understand how dangerous these men were? If his mother were here, she’d be able to talk some sense into Mammi—she’d always had that gift. But she wasn’t here, and Solomon was no authority figure in this kitchen.

  “We’ll figure it out,” he said.

  “I also wrote that letter to your mother and mailed it,” Bridget said. “I told her that you’d arrived, and that you’re looking for work. And that . . . you miss her.”

  “Mammi, stop speaking for me,” he said with a sigh.

  “You do miss her,” Bridget replied. “I won’t apologize for telling the truth.”

  Would his mother come back? This was about more than his need for her forgiveness now. They needed someone with a level head to make some decisions around here again.

  “You’ve come home, Sol,” Bridget said. “This is what your mother wanted—you back on the proper side of the fence. I’m sure she’ll be satisfied.”

  “I take it you didn’t tell her that this isn’t a permanent solution?” he asked.

  She batted her hand through the air. “Who knows? Maybe it will be. Who can say for certain?”

  “I could,” he replied.

  His grandmother shot him an annoyed look. “Gott might have other plans for you, young man. There’s a reason why we always say, ‘if Gott wills it.’ Do not tempt the Most High, Sol.”

  Why did he feel like he was being lectured for telling the truth? His grandmother looked out the window in the direction of the chicken house, where Elizabeth was gathering eggs. A light glowed warm and golden through the small windows. His grandmother yawned, and he felt a surge of sympathy for her. She was an old woman now, and while Solomon wanted to help her, he knew that his presence caused her more work and worry, too. They both needed his mother to return.

  “You can go up to bed, Mammi,” he said.

  “I should wait until Elizabeth gets in,” she replied. “It really is my responsibility to make sure that Elizabeth isn’t in a compromising situation, and with you staying here—you’re both young and single and . . . available. . . .”

  “What am I going to do, Mammi?” he asked with a wry smile. “I’m going to wash dishes. I’m going to wish her a good night and I’m going to finish polishing these shoes. Her reputation will be safe in the same room as me, I’m sure.”

  His grandmother stifled another yawn. “Be sure that it is, Sol.”

  How much did she suspect? Solomon didn’t answer, and as Bridget made her way upstairs, he picked up the shoe brush again. Elizabeth was the bright spot in this difficult return to his boyhood home. She sparked something inside him, and maybe that was visible to others . . . but she gave him something else to focus on besides his own repentance. She was an unattainable goal, and maybe every man needed one of those. It kept him putting one foot in front of the other.

  He buffed the first boot and then put it down on an old piece of newspaper—The Budget. As he picked up the second boot, he saw a smear of black polish on the front of his white shirt and he let out a moan.

  This was one of three shirts—he couldn’t afford to ruin it. He put down the boot and the brush and looked from his smudged hands to his soiled shirt.

  He muttered irritably and headed to the kitchen sink where he washed his hands thoroughly with soap, gray suds going down the drain, and then shrugged off his suspenders and unbuttoned his shirt. He slipped it off and poured a dribble of blue dish liquid onto the smudge.

  Just then the side door opened, and he heard Elizabeth come inside. He couldn’t see her past the cupboards.

  “I think I must have missed some cucumbers last time,” Elizabeth said, and she came toward the sink, “because I found a few more—”

  She stopped short and he looked over his shoulder. Elizabeth’s gaze moved over his torso, and then she looked quickly to the side.

  “I’ve got a stain on my shirt,” he said. “Shoe polish.”

  “Oh, that will be tough to get out.” Elizabeth’s gaze flickered toward the sink.

  “I don’t want to leave it for my grandmother to wash,” he said. “Besides, I don’t have many shirts. This one can’t be turned into rags yet.”

  “Right . . .” Elizabeth came hesitantly up beside him and looked down at the shirt in his hands. “Let me—”

  She took it, scrubbed the fabric together a couple of times, and then reached for the dish soap again, adding more. She laid the shirt inside the sink and glanced over at him, her cheeks pink. He noticed the way her gaze lingered on his chest before she jerked her eyes up to meet his.

  “Sorry, should I cover myself?” he asked, whisking a towel from the counter and holding it in front of his bare chest teasingly.

  Elizabeth rolled her eyes and turned away. “You’re too English.”

  He dropped the towel. “What—should I have left this shirt balled up in my laundry hamper and let my grandmother deal with it?” he retorted. “I need to get it clean.”

  “Let that sit for a few minutes and then I’ll add vinegar and baking soda,” she said.

  “That’s the trick?”

  “Yah.” She turned back again, but she looked resolutely toward the sink.

  He couldn’t help but chuckle. He was flustering her, and maybe a small part of him liked it. With Elizabeth, he was no longer the bad boy trying to fit back in, it was on a more basic level—man and woman.

  “What was bothering you today?” he asked.

  “Hmm?” She allowed herself to look at him again.

  “Today in service. You looked worried. That wasn’t about me, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t about you,” she said, but her smile slipped. “I talked to my brother—” She swallowed. “My daet is being let out of prison. He’s coming back.”

  Solomon let the words sink in, then he eyed her cautiously. “Is this good news?”

  “You know what he did,” she replied. “And I don’t know if I’m ready to face him.”

  “Yah . . .” It was why Solomon hadn’t told his family he was getting released either.

  “The bishop says he can come stay with my brother,” she went on. “So, as long as the bishop is supportive, my brother says he’ll help Daet out.”

  “Where else would your father go?” Solomon asked quietly.

  “I don’t know,” Elizabeth said, and her voice caught.

  “You were worried about him suffering not so long ago and now he’ll be out,” he said. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “Yah—” She nodded quickly. “At least he’ll be out of jail. But . . . he robbed his neighbors, Solomon, and he ruined our lives! And now he’s coming back.”

  “Yah . . .” He could see the complications there, but he had no answers either.

  “Do you know what it’s like to be the child of a convict?” she asked.

  Solomon was silent and her lips quivered. She met his gaze and blinked back a mist of tears.

  “I know what it’s like to be the convict,” he said.

  “I’m sorry—I’m complaining to the wrong person,” she said, and she started to turn, but he reached out and caught her hand.

  “No, you aren’t
,” he said. “You have every right to be angry, and shocked, and resentful, and . . .” He couldn’t think of anything else to name the swirl of emotion she must be holding inside herself. “You can talk to me, Lizzie. You always can. I’m not quite that fragile.”

  She hesitated a moment, then turned back, her eyes flashing with ferocity.

  “My father ruined us!” she said, her voice shaking. “He ruined our good name, and he preached with such authority about morality and community, and the strength of our Amish faith. . . .” Her lips turned downward. “And now he’s coming back, and I’m no longer the preacher’s daughter, I’m . . . his daughter.”

  “And you love him,” Solomon murmured.

  “I love him, and I hate him, and I want him to be safe, but I want him to stay away, and—I’m now the daughter of a criminal!”

  “You’re Lizzie Yoder,” he said, and he tugged her closer, feeling the swish of her skirt against his pants. She had an unnoticed tendril of hair loose. “You’re not just someone’s daughter, you’re a woman in your own right.”

  “Everyone is someone’s child,” she said. “Everyone.”

  And while Solomon had to agree with her logic, it wasn’t her argument that had his attention. He wanted to soothe her, to protect her, to take this burden from her, but he couldn’t. He tucked the tendril of hair behind her ear and her free hand fluttered up to touch it.

  “Then be your mother’s daughter,” he said. “You have more than one parent.”

  Elizabeth blinked up at him, her hand frozen at her face, as if the thought were a new one, and he reached out and ran his thumb down her soft cheek. He didn’t know why he was doing this—it was going too far, again, and he knew it. But she didn’t pull away as he traced his thumb along her jawline and brushed it across her lips. She parted them, sucking in a breath, and when she swayed ever so slightly in his direction, whatever was left of his self-control shuddered and fell.