The Imposter

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  She dug her nails into her palms. She would not cry again. Not again. She had done enough crying in the last few weeks to last her a lifetime.

  Thelma came up behind her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Every now and then, you find yourself in a situation you’d never have chosen in a million years. Something you can’t believe you’ve done or been a part of. I know that’s how you feel right now.”

  It was. All that and more.

  “Freeman said I was a sinner.”

  Thelma frowned. “Well, so is he. So am I. You’re not a bad person. You’re just going to have a baby. You are not going to hang your head, got it?”

  A little of the heat drained out of Katrina’s cheeks. She nodded. “It’s just that . . . they’re telling me what I have to do to make things right in the eyes of God, and I do want to do that. Of course I do. But my father has always told us to wait until it’s real before we get baptized. I’m just not there yet.”

  “It’ll all get worked out in due time.” Thelma then fit her hand over Katrina’s. It was bony with thick knuckles, but soft. “One day at a time, right?”

  “Yes. You’re right.”

  “Have I mentioned that I’m so glad to have you staying with me?” Thelma hobbled off to the kitchen to check on the stew that was simmering on the stove top. She could move around as quietly as a cat, even with her cane.

  Katrina picked up her spine and her chin and her fragile sense of self. Her people weren’t ones for overt displays of affection, but she couldn’t help calling out, “And have I mentioned that I love being here, Thelma Beiler?”

  Thelma peeked her head around the doorframe of the shoebox kitchen. “No, but I thought so. Still, I’m glad to hear it.”

  14

  Birdy sat across the room from the man she most admired and tried very hard not to feel self-conscious. How she wished she’d worn her turquoise dress today—someone told her once that it suited her coloring nicely. She didn’t know that David would be dropping by to teach a class today, and here she was, wearing her drab brown dress. She reminded herself that it didn’t really matter how she looked. But it did.

  David stood by her desk, drawing the children into a story, and Birdy tried to keep her mind on the important topic of Bible memorization, and not on how deep his voice was, exceptionally deep, yet warm and kind.

  “I know an old, old, old bishop who has an incredible ability to recite long passages,” David said. “Apparently memorization didn’t come naturally to him. He decided that memorization is like working a muscle—the more you exercise it, the easier it becomes. So he worked at it every day, and he found some tips that helped.”

  David’s instructions to the class were simple: “Let a passage find you. When you hear a verse that appeals to you, scribble it down on an index card. Tape it to your door, or rubber band it to your scooter handlebars so that you can whisper the lines on your way to school.”

  He passed out index cards and rubber bands to each row. “But it isn’t about just gathering information. And for what? To impress others? To feel clever and smug? Never! You must ponder the meaning and significance of each verse. Truly living a few lines is better than memorizing a hundred. You all know Bible stories about Pharisees in Jesus’s time who could recite Scripture but never let it enter their hearts.”

  David picked up a piece of chalk and wrote on the blackboard:

  Thy word is a lamp unto my feet

  and a light unto my path.

  Psalm 119:105

  He pivoted around. “How many of you have walked in the dark with a flashlight?”

  The entire class raised their hands.

  “How far have you been able to see?” He looked around for a volunteer, found none, so called on one. “Noah Yoder?”

  “Only as far as the flashlight’s beam spreads.”

  “And how far is that?”

  Noah squinted. “I guess, what’s right in front of you.”

  “Exactly! Sometimes in life, that’s as much as God lets us see of the future. Just a few feet ahead of us. And the Word of God is like that flashlight beam, showing us which path to take.” He pointed to the chalkboard. “I want you all to write that verse on your index card and try to memorize it this week. Next week, I’ll quiz you to see who has it memorized.” He grinned and looked at Birdy. “There might even be a prize.”

  The children scribbled down the verse. “There’s one more thing my old friend the bishop told me. He said that if memorizing takes such a long time that you feel as if you’re chiseling words in granite, then to rest easy. Any idea why?”

  No one had an answer. No one except Luke Schrock. He raised his hand and Birdy cringed. She never knew what would tumble out of Luke’s mouth on any given moment. David gave him a nod and Luke stood at his desk. “I guess ’cuz words chiseled in granite will never disappear.”

  David smiled. “Well done, Luke,” and the boy preened like a jaybird.

  Birdy dismissed the children to have a recess on the playground and they thundered out the door like a herd of wild beasts. David picked up the extra index cards and stuffed them in his coat pocket.

  Birdy fiddled with her hands, searching for a subject to put off his departure. “Did you have a particular prize in mind? For next week?”

  “I think Molly wouldn’t mind making some baked goods for a prize for students who memorize the verse next week . . . though—” he hesitated—“judging from the look on your face, as if you found a mouse in your soup, maybe that’s not such a good idea.”

  An unladylike snort of laughter burst out of Birdy and she felt her face grow oven-warmed. “I know Molly’s been working very hard on her cooking. But perhaps she might want to come to my house on Saturday afternoon and we could bake something together. I have a new recipe for pumpkin chocolate chip muffins I’ve been wanting to try.”

  Those beautiful eyes of his lit up at that news. “Molly would love that, Birdy.” He picked up his hat.

  End of subject.

  “Thank you again for taking time to teach the children.”

  “I enjoyed it.” End of subject. He put his hat on.

  “I liked the part about putting a rubber band around the note card on their scooter handlebars,” she added hurriedly.

  “Thanks.”

  End of subject, again. He walked toward the door and she followed behind. On the porch steps, David and Birdy stood a moment, shoulder to shoulder, studying the children. A closeness stole over them, binding them. Their gazes met momentarily. “Birdy, where do young people go on dates around Stoney Ridge?”

  “Dates?”

  “Yes. If a fellow wanted to take a woman out on a date, where would they go?”

  “At this time of year?”

  “Yes. Soon.”

  Oh. Birdy’s heart sank. Again, Mary Mast loomed large. “I suppose, if the weather cooperated, they would go to Blue Lake Pond for a picnic.” Her favorite place in all the world.

  David grinned. “Perfect. That sounds just perfect.”

  The next Sunday was a church day. A glut of buggies and wagons lined up along the rim of Sol and Mattie Riehl’s pond by the time Thelma’s buggy arrived. Andy dropped Thelma at the door to the Riehl farmhouse, but Katrina had remained in the buggy. As Andy squeezed their buggy into an open spot, a young boy came galloping up to them. He was supposed to unhitch the horse and lead it out to pasture, but when he caught sight of Katrina, he skidded to a dead stop. His eyes grew wide, his mouth hung open, his face turned a dozen shades of red as he stared stock-still at her.

  It was the first time Katrina was part of a church event since she had told her father that she was going to have a baby. This was the first time she realized that everybody knew, everybody was staring at her, and not in a good way. Shame pressed down on her again. For a moment, she felt as if she might faint. She hadn’t thought this through—the story of her life!

  Knots of men and women stood gathered in the morning sun, waiting for that invisible signal w
hen they would file into the front doors of the barn for church to start. Andy helped her out of the buggy and walked with her toward the farmhouse.

  Halfway there, she froze. “Maybe I should just go home,” she said to him, and turned around to leave, but of course she couldn’t really leave, much as she wanted to. No Plain person ever missed a preaching just because she didn’t feel like going.

  “Absolutely not,” Andy said in a calm voice. “Look at me, Katrina.”

  She raised miserable eyes, hoping Andy would see that she desperately wanted to get out of there and help her back into the buggy before her knees buckled from under her. “I can’t do this.”

  “Yes, you can,” he said in her ear. “Think of this as the wild beast you’re facing in the Roman Coliseum. You’re in the lion’s den. When you get inside, you sit up straight. Stare back if anybody stares at you. That’s how you scare off a wild beast.”

  That, Katrina thought, and a fierce weapon in your hand.

  “I just . . . I never thought of how this would feel. I’m not prepared to face people. I’m just barely beginning to figure things out myself.”

  “You don’t have to have it all figured out.” His mouth took on that teasing look of his. “You’d be surprised at how many people here don’t have it all figured out, either.”

  Maybe so, but their humiliation wasn’t quite as public as hers.

  She gave the bow of her bonnet a straightening tug, then smoothed her hands over her skirt. She didn’t need to look around to hear the hiss of whispers start up around her, even in her imagination. Ears buzzing, face burning, she kept her head down. Her throat felt like it would close completely, and when she did lift her head, she caught the sour look of Edith Fisher giving her a once-over. “Why is it that here, coming to church, is where I feel such shame?”

  “Maybe that’s what’s supposed to happen,” Andy said thoughtfully. “A few weeks ago, your father said that part of coming to worship is to bring our shame to the altar.”

  Bring our shame to the altar. A wheel clicked over in her mind. Until that moment, the fact that her father was a minister had never held any resonance to Katrina. It was a flat word without depth.

  Bring our shame to the altar.

  She saw a tiny ray of light break through the messy crack of her life. She took a deep breath and found her chest didn’t feel as tight as it had; she could breathe a little easier.

  “You’re not alone in this, Katrina. If you’d just lift your head, you’ll see what I mean.”

  She raised her head to see her father, brother, and sisters, her friend Bethany Schrock, and behind them trailed Birdy, with her arm supporting Thelma, all coming down the path to welcome her to church.

  A small thing it was, really, a small moment in this long morning ahead of her, and yet it made some broken part of Katrina begin to feel whole again.

  Jesse thought Sunday church went fairly well, all things considered. His father and sisters went home right after lunch was served, but he stuck around to see if his presence could curtail any Stoltzfus gossip. Just as he thought there might be a dim but hopeful chance that Katrina’s news might be swallowed up and digested by everyone, that they had moved on to other topics of conversation, a police car drove up the driveway. Sheriff Hoffman eased out of his car. Everyone stilled and quietly watched to see what the sheriff wanted. It turned out, what he wanted was a who. Jesse Stoltzfus, in fact, he announced in an overly loud voice. For questioning about a gambler known as Domino Joe.

  Submissively, Jesse got in the back of the squad car. He tried not to notice the stunned look on Miriam Schrock’s face as the sheriff closed the door. The car was backing up to turn around and was getting ready to pull out when somebody started banging on the trunk. “Wait a minute!”

  Andy Miller leaned toward the sheriff’s open window and said something to him, then opened the back passenger-side door and jumped in next to Jesse before he slammed the door shut.

  Jesse stared at Andy. “You want to go to the police station with me? Why?”

  “Because you need some help. Whatever you did, I’m pretty sure you’ll incriminate yourself.”

  “But I didn’t do anything to Domino Joe! I haven’t even seen him, or his goons.”

  “Shhh!” Andy glanced up at the sheriff in the front seat. “Slip me the brass knuckles when the sheriff isn’t looking,” he whispered. “They’re illegal in the state of Pennsylvania.”

  What? Now he tells him that? “I left them at home. I didn’t think I’d need them at church.”

  “Good. Don’t say another word until we get you a lawyer.”

  At the Stoney Ridge police station, Sheriff Hoffman took Jesse into his office for questioning while Andy was told to wait in the lobby area. Apparently, Domino Joe had been arrested. This sheriff was a talker, and he took particular delight to describe the circumstances that ended in the arrest of Domenico Guiseppe Rizzo.

  The Lancaster County Fair had started last weekend, the sheriff explained, and the Lancaster County Police Department had come up with a clever sting to collect fugitives with outstanding warrants. The “Lancaster County Lottery Commission” had sent out thousands of letters, claiming to be distributing millions of dollars in excess lottery funds. The winners were instructed to present identification at the County Fairgrounds. Those who received a letter arrived at the fair to find a balloon and streamer-festooned building. They were called, one by one, into separate rooms to receive their surprise. Uniformed officers explained the hoax and arrested the befuddled fugitives.

  “And so that’s where Domino Joe and his thugs have been?” Jesse asked incredulously. “In jail?”

  “Yup,” Sheriff Hoffman said. “That’s where he’ll be cooling his heels for a good long stretch. The LCPD served 53 felony warrants and made 29 arrests. His is going to stick.”

  “Then, uh, why am I here?”

  “I was the arresting officer for Domino Joe. In his coat, I found a notebook with your name in it. Looks like you had a streak of good luck, and then your luck ran out. I also found this.” He took an envelope out of his top drawer. “There was one thousand dollars in it.” He tossed the envelope across the desk. Jesse’s name was scrawled on the envelope. Jesse picked up the envelope and opened it. Inside were ten crisp, new one-hundred-dollar bills.

  He tried to keep all signs of alarm smoothed out of his expression. “Am I under arrest?”

  The sheriff took his time answering, so long that a bead of sweat ran down Jesse’s back. “I happen to know your father. He’s a good man. So this one time, Jesse Stoltzfus, you’ve got a pass. Next time your name crosses my path, I won’t be quite as understanding.” He pointed to the door. “Now, get out of here before I change my mind.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” Jesse couldn’t get out of that office fast enough.

  But waiting out in the lobby area, seated next to Andy Miller, was Jesse’s father. Jesse opened his mouth to explain, but his father held up a hand. “Andy’s filled me in. Are you free to go?” At Jesse’s nod, David stood up. “Then let’s go home.”

  There was a thick silence in the buggy riding home. Jesse sat in the backseat of the buggy, utterly still, sifting through the different defenses he could provide, but whenever he started to say something, he thought twice. His father’s jaw was clenched and he shifted in his seat, leaning forward almost prayerfully. Long out of experience, when his father took on that particular stance, Jesse knew it was best to remain silent. Andy sat up front, his eyes glued to the road, providing nothing beside companionship. Finally, his father broke the silence. “One question, Jesse. I only have one question and I want the honest truth in an answer. Do you know who Yardstick Yoder is?”

  “Of course. A few weeks ago, I saw him run and asked him to be in the Hundred-Yard Dash at Founder’s Day. Dad, he is fast. Fastest boy I’ve ever seen. I saw him run, and I got carried away. Downright greedy. I see that clearly now.”

  “Did you ever, ever, think to ask wha
t his real name is?”

  Such a thought never occurred to Jesse. “Yoder is a common name,” he offered up weakly.

  “Yardstick’s name is Noah Yoder. His father was Ephraim Yoder. He missed Sunday’s race because he was at his father’s bedside in the hospital, watching him pass away.”

  “Oh,” Jesse said. Oh, oh, oh.

  The success of Jesse’s bill collecting took a noticeable downturn after he had been unceremoniously hauled away in the sheriff’s car on Sunday. For the last two days, whenever he knocked on a farmhouse door, no one answered, though he heard sounds of scurrying feet inside.

  He started to feel more paranoid. Each time Jesse passed a farm he imagined that people were watching him from behind their curtains, wondering what he was up to. He asked his sister Ruthie if she thought people might talk. “Of course people will talk,” she said with certainty. “People always talk. Especially about preachers and their families. As if they weren’t human like everybody else.”

  These people of Stoney Ridge—they had memories like elephants. Another reason why Jesse wasn’t cut out to be a minister’s son. He preferred people who provided him a large margin of grace. Or forgetfulness.

  His father insisted that he tell Hank the truth. Jesse had been avoiding that inevitable conversation—even hoping he could scrounge up the money he owed him this week. But after two full days of fruitless bill collecting, he knew he couldn’t postpone it any longer. He had to come clean. And then, perhaps, move far, far away to make a fresh start from his messy life. Prince Edward Island, perhaps.

  Feeling at his lowest point, he happened across Miriam Schrock in town. He slowed his scooter and, for once, she actually stopped to speak to him.