The Imposter

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  “Katrina! Don’t hang up.”

  She waited. A half beat of silence.

  “It is a miracle, isn’t it?” His voice was hushed. “You said the doctors were sure you could never get pregnant.”

  This. This was how he wooed her—not the charm or the swagger or the persuasive words. His genuine wonder and awe at the unexpected. She remembered one time, on a hike, when he noticed a rare wildflower, a purple harebell. He had the same bewildered tone in his voice then as now, as if he couldn’t believe what a gift he’d been given.

  “Yes, John, it is a miracle. And every day I am going to hug this baby and tell him or her that very thing.”

  “Katrina, I am sorry. I did love you, you know.”

  She brushed her hand across her face, breathed again. “The thing is that love from you, John, is . . .” She searched for the right words and borrowed a phrase from Andy. “. . . it’s pretty thin soup.” And then she hung up.

  For all her bluster, after the phone call, Katrina paced the road in front of the shanty for a full fifteen minutes, trying to pull herself together, to calm her racing heart and shaking hands, to erase the lingering effect of John’s voice, his words. She was relieved and upset all at once.

  “Everything all right?” Thelma said, looking up from her knitting when Katrina finally came back to the house. She watched her over her reading glasses, needles clicking along, her arm in the sling supported by a pillow so her hand was free to knit.

  No, everything wasn’t all right. Nothing would ever be the same again. “How am I going to get through this?” Katrina asked. “How will I ever manage?”

  Thelma rested her knitting needles in her lap. “One foot in front of the other. One day at a time.” She picked up her needles and started to click along again.

  The taller the pile of money from outstanding bills grew for Hank, the less interested he seemed in the money. It drove Jesse crazy. How could Hank not care about money? Everybody cared about money! Everybody except Hank Lapp. The wad of money just sat there in his desk drawer, bundled with a rubber band. Something, Jesse felt, should be done with it. And after meeting Yardstick Yoder, he had a plan to double Hank’s money.

  Jesse enjoyed competition of any kind. It started in the fifth grade, when he made a wager with his seatmate over how strong he was. Strong enough, he said, to snap the pointer of infamous Teacher Edna into two pieces. The teacher kept a pointer at the chalkboard that doubled as a means to whack the knuckles of misbehaving children. Mostly, Jesse. The day before, he had carefully replaced the pointer with a dowel he had found at the hardware store and painstakingly hollowed out, then stained to match the appearance of the original pointer. At the opportune time, Jesse spoke out of turn—something that never failed to set off Teacher Edna and make her reach for her pointer to come after him. He extended his palms for a whacking but, upon impact, the pointer broke apart.

  Jesse had it all worked out, but the horrified look on Teacher Edna’s face surpassed anything he could have imagined. It inspired him to embellish the moment: He screamed and wailed and carried on as if every bone in his hand had been smashed. The next day, he came to school with enormous bandages wound around his hands. Teacher Edna never again used corporal punishment. Jesse won his first bet, the admiration of all the scholars, and Teacher Edna treated him carefully and cautiously, as if he might have brittle bone disease.

  In the sixth grade, Jesse organized a betting pool among the upper grade boys. Each one contributed a dollar and the “pot” was awarded to whomever scored the most points on an upcoming exam. By age twelve, Jesse had discovered greyhound racing. By age fourteen, he had found the pony track. At times, he had amassed sizable winnings, but they never lasted long. There was always another race beckoning to him.

  Jesse heard talk of a man in Stoney Ridge who was known for placing bets, a man who could be found at The Chicken Box, a dive bar at the edge of town. A few days before the Founder’s Day Picnic, Jesse went to The Chicken Box. Sitting in a corner of the bar, he found a small man, thick-necked, with a body like a brick privy. Domenico Guiseppe Rizzo. Also known as Domino Joe.

  Jesse sat down next to him, hat brim tucked over his face, his back to the bartender. He wasn’t old enough to be in a bar.

  Domino Joe sized him up with a tilt of his head. “What’s up, kid?”

  Jesse got down to business. “I believe you have the wherewithal that I’m looking for.”

  Domino Joe squinted to hear, as if Jesse was speaking in a foreign language. “Huh?”

  “I heard you are the one to know how a man could place a bet.”

  “Think so?” Domino Joe scanned the room nervously. Satisfied that no plainclothes policemen were nearby, he whipped out a much-used notebook. “What’s your pleasure? The boxing matches?”

  Jesse shook his head. A boxing match was anathema to a Plain man. “Never that. I have my standards. I have something in mind that requires no violence. The boys’ Hundred-Yard Dash at the Founder’s Day Picnic.”

  Domino Joe scribbled down some information in the notebook, then extended a palm to Jesse. “Let me see the color of your money.”

  As Jesse peeled out his twenty dollar bills, temporarily borrowed from Hank Lapp’s neglected bundle but soon to be replaced, he caught sight of a Plain man sitting at the bar next to an English man, handing papers back and forth, talking animatedly. After Jesse shook hands on the deal with Domino Joe, he went to the door and pivoted around, curious as to who that Plain man could be. The church in Stoney Ridge wasn’t big, and it was getting smaller by the week. The fellow’s back was to Jesse, but then he turned to speak to his companion and Jesse recognized his profile: Andy Miller, Thelma Beiler’s new hired hand.

  In the morning Katrina awoke, for a moment forgetting. Then she jerked into wakefulness and it all came flooding back. Today was the day she was going to tell her father about the baby. She pulled the sheets over her head, wishing she could just stay in bed and sleep the day away . . . but she’d done that long enough.

  One foot in front of the other, Thelma had told her.

  She climbed from bed and began to get ready for the day. This day. Would her life always seem branded by this day? A before and an after.

  She stopped by Thelma’s door but didn’t hear any movement yet. In the kitchen, she pulled out a bowl to whisk eggs for breakfast but soon found there were no eggs in the refrigerator. She grabbed a shawl that hung on a peg by the kitchen door to head down to the henhouse. She crossed the yard, passing through the deep shadow cast by the barn and the morning frost crackled beneath her shoes. At the sight of Andy emerging from the barn, her steps faltered.

  His hat brim hid his eyes, but his mouth was smiling as he strode toward her. “I was just heading to the house, hoping for a cup of hot coffee to warm my bones on this cold morning.”

  “That room in the barn must get cold.”

  “A little brisk.”

  “Why didn’t you say something? I’ll bring down some extra quilts.” She felt his gaze on her face and forced herself to meet his eyes, but for a moment neither said anything. Then she looked over her shoulder toward the henhouse. “I was just getting started on breakfast when I realized we were out of eggs.”

  “I haven’t seen much of you the last few days.”

  She shrugged. “You always seem to be off on the other side of the hill.” She pointed to his boots, caked with mud.

  He stamped his feet to shake off the mud. “Muddy on that hill.” He took a step closer. “It’s nice to see you out and about.” He tugged on one of her capstrings. “Hope you’re not avoiding me.”

  “No.” She shook her head so the capstring slipped away from him. “No, I just have had a lot to think about.”

  “I’m not such a bad listener myself.” He reached out for her hand and opened the palm, lifting it to his lips for a soft graze.

  She closed her eyes. It felt so good, his warm lips on her hand. Having a man give her this kind of attention.
>
  Katrina, no. Not now. This won’t give you what you need. That voice—it might not have been audible, but it was unmistakable. Clear, calm, to the point. A chill started at her neck and trickled down her spine. How many times had she heard her father say, “The God who spoke, long ago, still speaks.” Was this what her father meant? A voice . . . a God . . . who knew her name?

  She yanked her hand away, startling him. “Andy, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me. I only want . . .”

  “Friendship. You only want friendship.” His dark brows knitted together, staring at her as if he was trying to figure her out.

  “Yes.” No, but yes. She wanted to reach out and brush his hair out of his eyes, to touch him with the same gentleness he had touched her. Instead, she twisted her hands in her apron. “There’s a reason for that. I’ve been hiding something from you, from everyone.” She took a deep breath. “I’m going to have a baby.”

  For a long, miserable moment, he stared at her, as wide-eyed with wonder as he ever got. “How long have you known?”

  “Officially, just a few days. Unofficially, I’ve suspected for a few weeks.” She peered upward at him. She listened inwardly, waiting for the voice again, but she felt only a simple sense of rightness. Sorrow, too, for all that was lost to her.

  She glanced at him but he didn’t say another word, only gave her that unreadable gaze, so she started toward the henhouse. “I just needed to tell you why I can’t get involved with you.”

  He skimmed his hand over her arm. “Wait.”

  She stopped.

  “I’m sorry. Kinda hard to switch gears that fast. You’ve got to give a fellow a little time to process that information.”

  The silence lengthened and Katrina let it. She was still trying to process the news herself. She looked up at him, vulnerable and exposed. She didn’t even realize she was crying until he took her in his arms and said, “Go on now, get your cry out.”

  She clung to his coat and let the tears fall as he held her, stroking her back. And after a while he rested his chin on the stiff pleats of her prayer cap and held her closer. Soon, though, she stepped away and wiped the tears off her face. When would these endless tears stop flowing?

  “If a friend is what you need, then a friend is what you’ll have.

  He looked down at her with eyes that were warm and concerned.

  “I could definitely use a friend. Especially today.”

  “You can count on me.” He looked so solemn, so serious, that she felt a slight grin quiver on her lips. Seeing it, his eyes sparkled, and an answering grin lifted his mouth. “Why today?”

  “I’m planning to tell my news to my father.”

  She started past him as he tugged on her sleeve and asked, “Are you sure today’s the right day to tell your father?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. I don’t want to delay it any longer.”

  “Maybe it’s slipped your mind. Today’s the Founder’s Day Picnic. Everybody and their grandmother will be in town.”

  11

  Yardstick Yoder was loping back and forth at the edge of the field of contestants like a stray keeping his distance from the herd. Jesse went over to lend encouragement and found he needed some himself after a closer look. Yardstick seemed as restless and anxious as a riderless horse. His strawlike hair hadn’t been combed in days and his clothes were dirty and wrinkled. Bending down to him, Jesse urged in a low voice: “Run, Yardstick. Run like the wind.”

  “Huh? How does wind run?”

  Ah, he was a literal-minded fellow. Jesse tried a more concrete motivational tool. “As you run, imagine that Luke Schrock is right on your heels, trying to catch you to beat you up.”

  “That’s not hard to imagine,” Yardstick said stoically.

  Jesse patted Yardstick’s thin shoulder, then hurried over to the sidelines, looking worriedly at the big boys in the race. Each one made two of poor skinny Yardstick. He wondered if he might have made a mistake, especially when he thought of the sizable sponsoring fee he had to put up to register Yardstick. But then again, he had seen Yardstick run. The boy was lightning on two legs.

  Catching Domino Joe’s eye, Jesse stepped over to speak to him. “I’ll bet he wins by at least a dozen yards.”

  “What?” Domino Joe said. “A racehorse couldn’t do that.” He glanced at Jesse. “You want to put some greenbacks behind that prediction? Double or nothing?”

  Jesse thrust a hand out to shake on the deal.

  A warning whistle blew and Yardstick bolted for the starting line to join the other entrants. Eleven of the dozen boys bent over in a determined crouch, while Yardstick just stood there, fidgeting nervously from one foot to the other. Then the starter’s pistol fired, and Yardstick was in full flight while the others were getting their speed up. He ran as if devils were pursuing him with red-hot pitchforks. He ran however fast it is a boy can run. Down the track he flew, leaving the puffing boys in his wake.

  Not a moment after Yardstick sailed past the finish line, Domino Joe appeared at Jesse’s side and loomed in on him. “Kid, we got some talking to do. I’m gonna need you around this weekend.”

  Jesse smiled. “What do you have in mind?”

  The day started cold but became warmer as the sun floated up the sky. A perfect day for the Stoney Ridge Annual Founder’s Day Picnic, Katrina thought, glad she wasn’t in town for it. Fern and Amos Lapp had arranged to stop by Moss Hill to pick up Thelma and Katrina in time for the picnic, but at the last minute, Katrina opted out, insisting that she had some things she needed to take care of at the house.

  She felt grateful for the unexpected solitude of this day. She needed a break—from both those people she wanted to avoid and the one she liked too much for her own good. She needed time to sort things through. The phone call with John, the talk she needed to have with her father soon—not today, not Saturday because she knew Mary Mast planned to stop by the store, and then it would be Sunday. Surely, this kind of news did not need to be delivered on the Sabbath. Even though it was an off-Sunday, her father deserved a day off from troubles. Soon, though, she would tell him.

  And then there was Andy. Something was happening between them, something within her. It was an unsettled feeling, something she was not prepared for and had not imagined she would feel again. She didn’t want to feel it again.

  But then, her life had turned upside down and she suspected the unsettled feeling was only partly due to the presence of Andy Miller.

  Restless, she decided to take a walk in the midday sun, and remembered that she had promised extra quilts for him. She chose the warmest quilts she could find, stacked neatly in the guest room closet, and carried them down to the barn. Andy hadn’t complained—though she had noticed that he never complained, even after working long hours in the rain—but his little room at the back of the barn must be getting bitter cold in the mornings and nights. And this was still autumn! Imagine how it would feel in mid-January.

  When she reached the barn, she opened the door and called his name. Thelma’s buggy horse shuffled in its stall, a few sparrows flew through the rafters, but Andy didn’t answer. That wasn’t unusual. He often disappeared for long stretches, full days, working on different sections of the hill. She breathed in deeply, enjoying the thick, musty scent of alfalfa hay. She knocked on the door to his room to make sure he wasn’t inside and waited a moment before opening it. She set the quilts on the bed and took a moment to look around, curious about Andy. Fascinated by him.

  And yet there were very few signs of him. Very little evidence that anyone even lived in this room. His shaving brush was next to a small mirror, hung on a nail in the wall. She lifted the brush, breathed in the smell that reminded her of him. She closed her eyes, imagining herself and Andy . . .

  Stop it! Stop it now, Katrina Stoltzfus. How ridiculous. This was hardly the time to allow herself to be interested in a man.

  She pivoted around to leave and noticed a trunk stored under the bed. Ignoring a pang of guilt for
snooping, she bent down and pulled it out. Locked. She looked around for a key but heard a loud blasting sound in the distance—a gunshot?—and quickly shoved the trunk back under the bed. She left the room and hurried outside, waiting a moment for her eyes to adjust to the bright sunlight after the dim barn. She heard another gunshot go off and decided it must be coming from some Founder’s Day event. The sound of the gunshot startled Thelma’s buggy horse and set the chickens to clucking.

  Katrina started slowly up the hillside path. She passed some hens that were exploring the grass for grubs, walking as if on sharp stones, fussing like old women. When she reached the top of the hill, her favorite spot, she flopped down on a moss-covered rock and looked up. The sky was filled with swiftly moving, wispy, feathery clouds. Up here, the wind was blowing, and she had to tie her capstrings under her chin to keep them from blowing in her face. Yet the wind brought with it its own silence, she thought, until you began to wonder whether it was the wind you were hearing or the beating of your heart.

  It was a good place, this rocky hill. It had been a good place for Thelma and Elmo, and it was providing a way for Thelma to remain on it.

  She watched a hawk ride the wind. The hawk banked suddenly and flew straight off, like a shot arrow, into the sky. When it disappeared from sight, Katrina lay back and closed her eyes. She heard another gunshot and wondered if her father and sisters were having fun at the parade. She knew Jesse would be finding a way to have fun. She hoped it was legal.

  The strange, unsettled feeling was still with her; curiously, it made her aware of just how attached she was growing to the piece of earth upon which she lay, that particular hill of moss, that particular tiny patch of Stoney Ridge.