The Preacher's Daughter

by Patricia Johns

  When those dreams finally faded, another dream took their place, and this one was the old, gray, granite, cold dream of prison. He was walking to his cell, a guard behind him, a guard in front, and he felt such a wash of grief that he could have sunk to his knees and sobbed . . . but he couldn’t. Not there. Not with the other inmates looking out their cells at him, glittering, angry eyes following his every move. The guard stopped—he knew this guard—and he gestured into the cell.

  “Inside,” he barked.

  “For how long?” Solomon asked. “I thought I was released. How long do I have?”

  The guard didn’t answer.

  “I’ve got someone waiting for me. I have to see her first!” Solomon felt rising panic. “She’ll worry. If I could write a letter, or . . . or . . . if I could talk to her . . . somehow—”

  The door slammed shut.

  “Her name is Elizabeth!” he shouted. “How long am I in here?”

  The dream shimmered and faded as he felt a hand shaking his shoulder. He woke up with a start, gasping for breath as his heart hammered hard in his chest. He blinked his eyes open and reached for the hand that had shaken him, clasping slim, cool fingers.

  “Sol, it’s me—” Elizabeth whispered. “It’s okay, you were dreaming.”

  “Oh . . .” He reluctantly let go of her fingers and pushed himself up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Elizabeth backed up a few feet. She was in an ankle-length nightgown, her hair pulled back in a braid.

  “You were shouting,” she whispered.

  “What did I say?” he asked.

  “My name.” He could see her cheeks tinge pink in the low light. She took another step back toward the door.

  “Oh, yah,” he said. “I was dreaming of . . . a lot of things. Prison. I dreamed of prison.”

  It was fading now and he couldn’t quite make sense of it anymore. The tenuous dream logic was slipping away.

  “I should go back to bed,” she whispered. “I just wanted to wake you up—”

  “Thank you.”

  He was grateful for it actually. “Lizzie?”

  “Yah?” She stopped at the open door.

  When he was a child, his mother would wipe his hair from his forehead and tell him it was only a dream, made up of dandelion fluff and stove cinders. As a grown man, he felt that same need to reground himself into the real world again.

  “Did I wake up my grandmother?” he asked, grasping for a reason to have stopped her.

  “No.” She smiled faintly. “This will be our secret. Now, let me get back to bed before I earn myself another lecture.”

  “Right. Good night.”

  There it was, the reality he was clutching at. Elizabeth shut the door behind her as she left, and Solomon pushed himself to his feet. He wore pajama bottoms and no shirt, and the air in the room was close and warm. He went to the window and sucked in some fresh night air.

  How long was he going to dream of prison? Would his nights be plagued like this for the rest of his life?

  He went to his dresser and used a match to light his kerosene lamp. Then he picked up his Bible and opened it at random. He’d read until morning. This would look hypocritical to anyone who didn’t know his heart. This would look like a man faking his religion. But after jail time, and after realizing that his Amish life was lost to him, his faith was all he had left. Did it count anymore? When he’d left Bountiful, he hadn’t been terribly concerned about his own soul, but now . . . now he was starting to wonder.

  * * *

  The next morning Seth picked up the vegetables to be sold in town, which freed up Solomon’s morning so that he could go into town and check the corkboard for new jobs and, on his way back, visit Abe Yoder.

  His grandmother and Elizabeth had started pickling some cucumbers, the doors and windows all flung wide open to let the air flow through the hot kitchen, by the time Solomon headed out to hitch up the horses.

  Elizabeth didn’t say anything about where he was going, although she knew that he was planning to see her daet today. She watched him leave, her dark gaze locked on him, and he wondered what she was thinking. She was angry with Abe, and for good reason. He could definitely understand her rage toward her father right now, but Abe was the only man around who’d understand Solomon’s unique position—an ex-convict Amish. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a wave of guilt. She’d told him how hypocritical her daet seemed, how much respect she’d lost for him, and here Solomon was, wondering if Abe Yoder might have some spiritual insights after all . . . insights that might be meaningless for the good people of Bountiful who’d never strayed, but might be priceless for the likes of Solomon.

  There weren’t any new jobs posted—none that would take a man with his experience, at least. There were some bakery workers needed at an Amish bakery, but it was run by women, and they’d never want an ex-con in their midst. There was a wanted ad for a cleaning company, but the flier stated the successful candidate had to be bonded. At least he had some guaranteed work with the Catholic agency. It might come with the requirement that he be enrolled in school, but he was starting to see how difficult it was going to be for him.

  So, Solomon headed back the way he’d come and turned down the gravel road that led to Isaiah Yoder’s little house. When Solomon arrived, Abe came outside and Solomon jumped down from the buggy. They shook hands, and Solomon could feel Abe’s evaluation as he looked him over.

  “Are you here to see my son?” Abe asked. “Isaiah’s at work right now.”

  “I came to see you actually,” Solomon replied.

  “Me?” Abe’s gray eyebrows went up.

  “Yah . . . I . . .” Solomon swallowed. “I could use some guidance.”

  “I’m no longer in that position,” Abe replied slowly. “You know where I’ve been.”

  “And you’ve likely heard that I was in prison, too, until recently,” Solomon replied.

  Abe moved his head in acknowledgment. “You’re . . . close . . . with my daughter,” he said. “I heard that as well. Isaiah doesn’t like it.”

  Solomon smiled ruefully. “She’s a friend, nothing more.”

  A small lie. She was more than that to him, not that it mattered. He’d never court her, and Abraham Yoder had nothing to worry about his daughter marrying an ex-con.

  “Where were you incarcerated?” Abe asked.

  “Forest State Correctional Institution,” Solomon said. “How about you?”

  “Chester,” Abe replied.

  They regarded each other in silence for a moment, and then Solomon took out the feed bags for his horses from the back of the buggy and attached them to the bridles.

  “It might be better if we stay outside,” Abe said.

  Solomon looked up to see Bethany in the doorway, the baby on her hip. She looked cautious, a little worried. He wasn’t sure he blamed her, and he certainly didn’t want to be invading Isaiah’s home in his absence. There were boundaries there, an unspoken understanding between men.

  “Good morning, Bethany,” Solomon called.

  “Good morning.” She disappeared from view again, and Solomon and Abe headed up the drive a few paces, then stopped once they were far enough from the house for some privacy.

  “Welcome back,” Solomon said at last.

  “I could say the same to you, but I’m not sure that we’re welcome,” Abe replied.

  “True.” Solomon sighed.

  “So, what can I do for you?” Abe asked.

  “The thing is . . .” Solomon dug his toe into the dirt. “I’ve been out of jail for . . . ten days? And I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to adjust to life on the outside. It was only a year I was locked up, but it’s different now. Everyone sees me differently. I see myself differently, too, and . . . I was wondering if you have any spiritual advice that might help. Something that helps you, maybe.”

  “You’ll be the only one who cares for my spiritual insights,” Abe replied.

  “Maybe,” Solomon agr
eed. “But you’re the only one who will understand what I’ve gone through, too, so . . . it’s a small club.”

  Abe smiled faintly. “It is.”

  Solomon held his breath.

  “So people haven’t warmed to you either?” Abe asked.

  “No.” Solomon shrugged. “Cold as an icebox. Except for my grandmother, of course, and Lizzie—” He felt heat hit his face. “Elizabeth. I’m sorry, I used to call her that when we were kinner.”

  Abe was silent again, and he gave Solomon an appraising look.

  “I’ve been dreaming a lot,” Solomon went on in a rush. “I dream of prison, and it’s . . . it’s chilling. Nightmares. I wake up in a sweat, and I can’t sleep after that. I have this feeling”—he rotated his shoulders—“like between my shoulder blades. You know that feeling of someone watching you? Like the guards, or some huge, hulking bully staring at you, and you know they’ve got plans, and you’ll have to fight, and—” He was saying too much. It all just seemed to be spilling out of him.

  “I know that feeling,” Abe replied. “For me, there was less fighting and more manipulation and lying, trying to set one another up to look like we were breaking rules that we weren’t. They knew I wanted out early on good behavior, so . . .”

  “Right,” Solomon nodded eagerly. “I know what you’re talking about. Violence or not, there are men against you.”

  “Yah,” Abe agreed with a nod.

  “Well, I still have that feeling. Not about the community, but . . . like I can be in the stable mucking out a stall and I get this chill like someone’s watching. And logically, I know I’m alone, but tell my body that, you know?”

  “I haven’t been out that long,” Abe said with a shake of his head. “I’m not sure what to tell you. But I feel it, too. I catch myself second-guessing anything my son tells me, as if he’d lie to me. Isaiah is honest and good—I raised him, I should know! And I react like I’m in jail still. So I think I understand.”

  “I wonder if that gets better,” Solomon said.

  “I hope so.”

  They met each other’s gazes, and Solomon felt a wave of relief. “What’s getting you through this?”

  “Prayer.”

  “Yah . . . I’ve been reading my Bible more now than I ever did in my life.”

  Abe nodded. “Gott forgives, Solomon.”

  “The community might not,” Solomon replied.

  “But Gott does, and He’s the one you’ll face on the day of your death,” Abe said. “Not the community. Not even your own kinner.”

  There was sadness in the older man’s voice, and Solomon dropped his gaze. He couldn’t reassure him on that front either.

  “What happens if the community doesn’t take us back?” Solomon asked. “Spiritually speaking, I mean. If we can’t get jobs here, and people don’t trust us, and we’re pushed out—not officially, but socially, you know? Are we supposed to just stay?”

  “I’m not sure I can answer that for you,” Abe replied slowly, then he eyed him closely.

  “No.”

  The older man nodded. “I won’t give you sermons about the value of community or salvation coming from being a part of the church either. If you’ve made your choice already, it will fall on deaf ears anyway. Besides, I know what you’ve been through, and I know our community. Maybe even better than you do.”

  Solomon held his breath, waiting. He’d been longing for some kind of spiritual balm, something to hold on to . . . and he wouldn’t get it from the bishop. The bishop just repeated what he’d always said—stay, submit, endure.

  “Is there any hope for a man like me?” Solomon asked. “Or am I on my own now?”

  “In the Old Testament, Gott’s people disobeyed and went wrong a great deal,” Abe said slowly. “They kept going astray and Gott kept calling them back . . .” His voice was going into that old preaching cadence. “When they were driven from their homeland and sent to live among the heathen, Gott was with them. He never left them. Some spent their entire lives away from their homeland and never saw it again. Generations never saw the land of Israel. But that didn’t mean Gott had given up on them.”

  Solomon nodded. “Yah. I know the stories.”

  “I cannot speak for Gott, Solomon, and I cannot speak for you,” Abe said. “But if you are indeed pushed out and must go forge a life for yourself away from your homeland, away from Canaan . . . away from Bountiful . . . then Gott will go with you. And while your way might be difficult, Gott will have a path for you. Gott never forgets His kinner, even the ones in exile.”

  “The bishop wouldn’t say that,” Solomon said quietly.

  “The bishop hasn’t been to prison,” Abe replied.

  Solomon smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”

  “But Solomon?” Abe caught his eye and held it.

  “Yah?”

  “Don’t ask my daughter to go into exile with you,” Abe said. “She has a chance at a good life in Gott’s land. Don’t ask her to give that up.”

  How much did Abe suspect about Solomon’s feelings for Elizabeth? Had she said anything? Or was it an older man’s instincts?

  “Even if I wanted to ask her,” Solomon said, “she knows she’s worth more than me. And she wants an Amish life. She’s too smart to give it up.”

  “Good.” Abe smiled faintly. “That’s my girl . . .”

  And while Solomon was grateful to the man for his insights, he felt a sting of resentment, too. It was one thing for Elizabeth to know she was better than him, but for Abe Yoder, disgrace to Bountiful and ex-convict, to think that Solomon was so much lower was like a slap.

  “Pray about it, Solomon,” Abe said solemnly. “Pray long and hard for the Lord to reveal His will to you.”

  There it was—the tone that had left Elizabeth so angry. He could feel his visceral response to the words creeping up. It didn’t matter, though.

  He knew the direction he had to take, and it wasn’t an Amish life. That was what scared him. What happened when Gott sent you away?

  * * *

  Elizabeth sliced cucumbers into spears and tossed them into a bowl of salted water. Her fingers knew the work, and she glanced over to where Bridget stood next to a boiling pot of water, carefully lowering Mason jars into it with a set of tongs to sanitize them.

  “I’m expecting a guest today,” Bridget said, replacing the lid on the pot.

  “Are you? I can keep working on the pickles if you want to visit out on the porch where it’s cool,” Elizabeth offered.

  “No, no,” Bridget replied. “I wanted to have a job to do so that she could work with us. Sometimes talking is easier when we don’t have to look each other in the face.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “That’s . . . frank.”

  Bridget chuckled. “It’s Sovilla.”

  Elizabeth’s smile slipped. “Oh . . . I see.”

  “Dear, I think it would be good for you to talk to her, too,” Bridget said. “If she’s going to marry Johannes, she’ll be around. You’ll see her at quilt nights and at service Sunday. Others will be happy to welcome her, and if you’re seen as being standoffish at first, it could hurt your relationship with her.”

  For as long as Elizabeth stayed. That was one more reason to move on to another community. Maybe she’d have Sovilla’s luck and find some marriageable man elsewhere.

  “So it’s decided, then—” Elizabeth said.

  “Not exactly,” Bridget replied. “She’s met Johannes, and now she wants to meet his family, his people. Marrying a man is more than marrying him . . . if you know what I mean. He comes with a whole family attached to him. And because his mamm passed away, he asked if she could visit with me. I was honored that he’d ask.”

  “I’m not sure her meeting me is a good idea,” Elizabeth said. “I’m the sister of the woman he’s still in love with. And I won’t back down on that, Bridget. I know you don’t want to hear it because Lovina broke his heart. But he does still love her, and Sovilla will discover that soon enough.” />
  “I know he does, dear,” the older woman replied. “But it’s not good for him. And we’re all hoping it will change—for his own happiness. Just as we’re hoping for Lovina to come home. But sometimes there have to be alternative plans.”

  Why was Bridget so insistent that Elizabeth be here for this visit? Was it politeness? Did she really think Elizabeth would try to convince Sovilla to marry Johannes as a great many people seemed to want her to do? Or was Bridget perhaps counting on Elizabeth doing what she’d always done—speaking her mind?

  When Sovilla arrived an hour later, Elizabeth opened the door to see a woman with gray eyes and a solemn expression standing there. Johannes’s father, Bernard, was in the buggy outside, and he gave Elizabeth a nod.

  “I’ll come back in an hour or so,” he called.

  “Thank you,” Sovilla said, and then she straightened her shoulders and gave Elizabeth a nod. “I’m Sovilla Miller.”

  “I’m Elizabeth Yoder,” she replied, stepping back. “You’re looking for Johannes’s aunt, Bridget. I’m just here helping her with some pickles. Come inside.”

  Sovilla was slim, but she had a dominant presence. Her jaw was strong and her hands were callused—a woman who worked hard. She glanced around the kitchen. She was no young woman, shy and bashful. She carried herself with poise and a certain confidence.

  “Sovilla . . .” Bridget came forward and took her hand. “It’s lovely to see you. I know this must be uncomfortable, but I hope to make it less so. I’m Johannes’s aunt.”

  “It’s good to meet you,” Sovilla said, and she cleared her throat. “I see you’re making pickles. I’d be happy to help.”

  “Yes, of course!” Bridget smiled. “Come wash up and we’ll get to work.”

  For the next few minutes Elizabeth listened as Bridget chatted with Sovilla, asking about her daughters, giving her sympathy for the death of her husband. Elizabeth stayed silent. Sovilla spoke about her daughters—the oldest being four and the youngest barely two. She talked very easily about Rueben, too, almost as if he were simply away on a trip, and then she’d seem to remember that he was dead and her eyes would mist and her chin would tremble.