The Postcard

by Beverly Lewis

  Before hanging up the phone, he’d promised his niece another trip instead. “Some other time, maybe when I go to London, I’ll take you and your mother with me . . . when I’m not so tired.”

  “Tired of living and scared of dying?” She was a spunky one. “Okay, Uncle Phil, I’ll take whatever I can get . . . if that’s a promise. About London, I mean.”

  In no way did he wish to think ahead to the overseas assignments. Not then and not now.

  He knew if he gave in to the abrasive feeling behind his eyes and the overall lassitude of the moment, he might not awaken in time to conduct any research or write a single sentence. Which now, as he considered the idea, seemed an exceptionally grand way to dispose of three days.

  It was the notion, however, that he might miss out on the candlelight supper included in the night’s lodging that caused him to rouse himself and forego the possibility of a snooze. Mrs. Zook, the hospitable owner’s wife, had promised pork chops fried in real butter. Bad for the arteries but tasty on the tongue. The woman, who’d insisted that he call her Susanna, had welcomed him with such enthusiasm that he wondered at first if he were the only guest staying the night.

  He discovered, soon enough, that the historic dwelling was solidly booked through October. “Most of the smaller rooms, that is,” Susanna Zook had told him. Such was the Zooks’ Orchard Guest House. A popular B&B indeed.

  In dire need of a shower, he pushed himself off the comfortable bed, noting the handmade Amish quilt. He carried his laptop across the room to the handsome desk. The rolltop portion had already been pulled back, as though a welcome sign were attached. He was glad for the desk’s spacious accommodations and would use every inch of space it could afford.

  After setting up the computer, he turned his attention to unpacking. He would stay three days, depending on how solid his research connections were, though he’d called ahead to the Lancaster Mennonite Historical Society, setting up a specific appointment with Stephen Flory, a research aid, who, in turn, had promised a private interview with a “talkative Amish farmer.” In addition to that, the owners of the B&B certainly seemed like a good possibility. They appeared to be retired farmers, though he couldn’t be positive. There was something intriguing about their gracious manner, their kindly servant mentality. Only hardworking farmers displayed such character traits, or so his grandpap had told him years before. Grandfather Bradley had informed him about farm folk back when Philip was a boy, visiting his daddy’s parents in southern Vermont. What a spread they had just outside Arlington, not far from Norman Rockwell’s former home.

  On first sight of Grandpap’s place, his seven-year-old heart had actually skipped a beat or two. He immediately envied anyone who lived under a sky that blue and wide. And what enormous trees! Not a single towering building to block the sunlight, no blustery canyons created by skyscrapers that swayed in the wind. His heart felt free on Grandpap Bradley’s land.

  Philip’s grandfather had built the hideaway in New England as a summer cottage, on the steep bluffs overlooking the Battenkill River. The five-room house possessed all the knotty-pine appeal a city boy might imagine, though prior to that first summer, Philip had had no knowledge of vacation spots of this sort. Especially summer places where lofty trees swept the expanse of sky instead of finger-thin structures— ninety or more stories high—and vegetable gardens were planted firmly in rich mahogany soil instead of imported box gardens on top of drafty penthouse roofs.

  And there were llamas. Grandpa had a penchant for the long-necked, hairy creatures, and though they were gentle enough, Philip never quite got over the feeling, even as a teenager, that he ought to give the animals a wide berth. He’d read that llamas sometimes spit if they were aggravated or apprehensive. Young Philip could hardly begin to imagine the slime of a llama’s spittle on his face. Such an experience, he’d decided early on, was to be avoided at all costs.

  The oversized cottage was a replica of surrounding farmhouses, though less opulent and more quaint, in keeping with the unpretentious charm of the red Chiselville Bridge, the covered bridge not more than a mile away. Philip particularly enjoyed the miles of hiking trails and wilderness crosscountry skiing near his grandparents’ home. In summer, he pretended to be an explorer in those woods; in winter, just the opposite—he launched search-and-rescue missions for imaginary folk.

  His grandmother’s African violets were always on hand to cozy up the southern exposure of the large breakfast nook. From everything he’d read about Amish houses, his grandmother’s kitchen set back in the hills of Vermont might have easily rivaled any Old Order kitchen, complete with buck stove and long wooden table and benches. He was yet to find out, of course, because the modern and convenient room where Susanna Zook prepared supper was, no doubt, a far cry from the turn-of-the-century-style kitchens he hoped to discover.

  After he showered and dressed, he wandered downstairs for afternoon tea. Passing the parlor area, he caught sight of a young woman dressed in a long gray dress and black apron, dreary as any mourning clothes he’d ever seen. Yet it was the color and appearance of her hair that caught his attention— subtle flaxen strands mingled with light brown tones, parted down the middle and pulled back in a low bun, partially hidden by a white see-through head covering. She sat motionless, her hands folded gracefully in her lap. He thought at first that she might be asleep but saw that her head was erect, eyes open.

  A small girl, wearing a long dress of pale green, her honey brown hair wrapped in braids around her head, came running past him and into the room. She was as cute as she was petite, and he was compelled to stand still just to see what she would do next.

  Sweetly, the young woman turned and reached up to touch the child’s pixielike face. “Ach, Annie, it’s you.”

  “Jah, it’s me, Mamma. Do you want somethin’ to drink?”

  “A glass of water will do,” the woman answered, her hand still resting on the child’s cheek. “Thank you, little one.”

  The encounter was like none Philip had ever seen. Yes, he’d felt the hand of his own mother on his brow, but to stand back and observe such a tender gesture from afar was pure poetry.

  Moments of compassion were worth watching—savoring, too—even if one felt entirely removed from those involved. He had experienced a similar emotion the first time he’d seen a boy and girl holding hands as they ran down the steps of the Eighty-sixth Street subway station, laughing as they tried to squeeze through the turnstiles together. Moments like that, he’d decided, were priceless in the overall scheme of things.

  Even if it were only his innate journalistic curiosity, he found himself drawn to the scene, especially to the woman, though her child intrigued him as well. Not one to gawk, however, he turned and made his way to the common area, featuring a bonnet-top highboy with slipper feet, as well as two sofas and several wingback chairs. A primitive butter churn stood sentinel in one corner, near a wood-burning fireplace.

  Susanna Zook, the plump Amish hostess and owner’s wife, had encouraged him upon his arrival to make himself at home. “Feel free to read, relax, and mingle with the other guests,” she’d said. So he located the pleasant room, complete with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves built in across one wall and a marble-topped coffee table with ample reading material—all this within yards of a well-appointed dining room. He congratulated himself on having made an excellent choice for his stay, sight unseen.

  A young couple was curled up on a settee near a fireplace marked by eighteenth century delft tiles, quietly exchanging intimate glances. He greeted them, then settled down in a chair to thumb through a Lancaster tourist guide.

  “Oh, there you are again, Philip.” He looked up to see the round and jubilant face of his congenial hostess. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked. “I can get you coffee, tea, a soft drink, or a glass of milk.”

  “Black coffee, thank you.”

  “Don’t forget to save room for supper, served promptly at five o’clock, two nights a week—Mondays
and Wednesdays,” Susanna replied, including the couple in her remark. “You’re always welcome to help yourself to snacks, before and after supper. Anytime, really.” She turned to a corner table, arrayed with a variety of cheeses and fruit, chocolate chip cookies, and scones. “Homemade specialty breads are also handy, if you know where to look for them.” She opened a cabinet door under the table, producing a wooden tray of additional delicacies. “Now, let me get you that cup of coffee. Black, you say?”

  He nodded, sinking back into the chair just as the little girl he’d seen in the parlor came scurrying through the room, carrying a tall glass of water.

  “Careful not to spill,” Susanna called to her, then turning to Philip, said, “That’s Annie, our six-year-old granddaughter. She’s busy as a honeybee.”

  “I can see that.” As they engaged in small talk, he listened carefully, paying close attention to the inflection of the woman’s unique speech pattern. “Does Annie live with you?” he asked when there was a lull in the conversation.

  “Both she and her mother do.”

  He waited, thinking that an explanation might be forthcoming. Was Annie’s mother divorced, a young widow . . . what? But no clarification was given, and Philip decided it was none of his business anyway.

  The Amishwoman turned toward the kitchen, and it was then he noticed the midcalf length of her blue cape dress and black apron, similar to the style of the younger woman’s. She wore, also, the accompanying white netting head covering made familiar to moviegoers by Hollywood’s portrayal of Lancaster County Amish. The see-through cap was referred to as a prayer covering by non-Amish folk; a Kapp or veiling by the Amish themselves. That much he knew.

  He had a strong desire to get chummy with some Amish folk; maybe even volunteer to help pitch hay somewhere. Simple enough. It was what he was paid to do, his gift, or so his young niece had mischievously informed him last time he’d visited. Yet he knew he’d have to temper his questions, choose each one carefully, especially those he asked the Amish directly. He had been warned by his sister, who had been corresponding with an Amish pen pal near Harrisburg for several years now. Drained and wondering why he’d even agreed to this assignment, he now wished he had grilled Janice in more detail. Mainly, though, he had been caught up in his own affairs—too busy as always to delve into his only sibling’s casual friendships.

  “Most importantly,” Janice had advised, “you must prove that you’re a trustworthy sort of guy before any Amishman will give you the time of day. And I’m not kidding.”

  He had appeased her by listening with one ear, thinking that when he arrived in Lancaster, there would certainly be folks who’d be willing to talk. For money, if for no other reason. But now that he was here, had been offered a sampling of the conservative lifestyle, had met Susanna and observed Annie with her mother, he was having second thoughts about the silver-tongued approach. Maybe his sis knew what she was talking about. Lest he start out on the wrong foot, maybe he should mention to Susanna or her more reticent husband that Janice was close friends with one of their relatives. After all, weren’t all Amish connected by blood or marriage? Yes, maybe some old-fashioned name dropping would open a few doors for him.

  He wracked his brain, trying to remember the name of the Harrisburg woman, Janice’s pen pal. Was it Stoltzfus? Something fairly uncommon.

  Scanning the room, he observed the brown tufted velvet chair and settee. Not exactly the most vigorous choice of color for such a grand room, considering the large tan hooked rug beneath his feet. Although coupled with the backdrop of yet another floral wallpaper pattern, the earthy tones actually worked.

  He was beginning to wonder if Plain folk purposely chose to decorate their homes a whit better than they adorned themselves, though the bright blues and purples he’d seen several Amishwomen wearing as they scurried about Bird-in-Hand Farmers Market weren’t entirely unattractive. At least, he hadn’t seen anyone else sporting the dismal gray that Annie’s mother wore as she sat alone in the parlor, completely still.

  He took note of the pink- and cream-colored hurricane lamp. Antique, no doubt. Most everything in the house was of the Victorian era. That, or New England Country. Susanna surely had an affinity for old things, same as his sister. He wondered how the two might get along if ever they were to meet.

  Culture clash, he thought, suppressing the urge to laugh. Then again, they had the potential to get on famously, especially since it was Janice who’d told him in no uncertain terms to slow down and live. The Amish seemed to know how to enjoy a slow-paced life. “You’re rushing through life, Philip, and it makes no sense . . . especially since you seem so absolutely miserable,” Janice had said.

  “But I need to keep busy,” he’d responded, a bit put out. “I function best that way.” He’d laughed, but he knew the truth. If he stopped working so hard, stopped filling up every second of his life with appointments and interviews and social events, he’d have to think. About the state of his life, for instance.

  “I’d rather die than sit around twiddling my thumbs,” he’d tossed off, hoping to end the uncomfortable Q and A.

  “So you’re addicted to work, is that it?” Janice never quit. She always pushed until he clammed up. “You know what I think? I think you’re running from yourself, and if you slow down, you’re afraid you’ll have to take a long, hard look at who Philip Bradley really is.”

  Nailed again.

  Truth was, of course, he did long for a simpler, slower life. But it was easier, by far, to keep running on this insane but safe treadmill called life, going faster and faster, never allowing himself to stop.

  Susanna startled him slightly as she came with a generous mug of steaming coffee on a saucer. “Here we are. Feel free to take it to your room if you like.” She glanced about her. “Or you may stay here . . . for as long as you wish. We also have a number of footpaths, leading to the orchard and beyond, to Mill Creek. It’s a wonderful-gut afternoon for a walk.”

  “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind . . . and I’ll look forward to supper, as well.” He offered a smile to the friendly hostess, and to the cozy couple who paid him no mind.

  “I think you’ll be mighty pleased with the pork chops.” Susanna’s smile was warm.

  “Yes, I’m sure I will,” he agreed, heading toward the stairs and to his room high above the parlor. He couldn’t help thinking most writers would give their eyeteeth to see the scene he had witnessed in the parlor. A heartfelt, unposed portrayal of love between two human beings. Little Annie and her mother, no doubt.

  He thought of his photographer friend on staff at the magazine. Henning would travel any number of miles if assured of such a tender photo opportunity. The vision of the child and mother was implanted in Philip’s memory, and as part of his research, he decided to write the description, along with his emotional response to it. In fact, as he rehearsed the maternal scene, he realized with sudden enthusiasm that he was eager to begin.

  Mighty happy, indeed, he thought, letting the quaint expression sink in. The Pennsylvania Dutch style of speech might take some getting used to, but he would be mindful of his sister’s admonition and be a trustworthy kind of guy. The instant this assignment was finished, he would think about taking a much-deserved vacation. Janice would be happy to hear of it. So would Kari, who might even be allowed to sneak off with him to Vermont and hide out at Grandpap’s old summer cottage. A pleasant thought, though he doubted he could ever bring himself to pull off such a fantasy.

  First, though, the assignment—Plain folk and their family traditions. Tonight at supper, he would get his research rolling by saying all the right things. And hopefully he could get Susanna Zook talking. Maybe Benjamin, too.

  Then he remembered Susanna’s adorable granddaughter. “Busy as a honeybee,” the woman had said of the child.

  Annie’s perfect, he thought.

  Seven

  Susanna poked a sharp meat fork into the pork chops, testing them for tenderness. “We’ll have us a rig
ht fine supper tonight,” she said, nearly singing the words. “Wouldja care to join us, Rachel?”

  Rachel, who was counting out the utensils with Annie’s help, shook her head. “Nothing’s changed, Mam. I don’t eat with our guests at breakfast, so I wouldn’t feel comfortable joining in at supper. You know how I feel about eating with strangers.”

  “Strangers—so en lappich Wese—such a silly matter! Our guests are no longer strangers once they hang their hats in the vestibule.” She sighed, a trifle exasperated.

  Rachel wore a pained expression. “I’m all right, just keepin’ to myself.”

  Susanna feared she’d hurt her daughter’s feelings. “Well, then I’ll leave it up to you.” Which was pretty much the way things turned out most of the time—leaving Rachel to wallow in her grief. Had it not been for Annie, full of vim and life, Rachel might never wander any farther than their property, in either direction. She wondered, too, if her daughter would ever think to be wearing dresses of blue or purple again, instead of the humdrum gray of mourning. ’Course if she couldn’t see, then what did it matter?

  “Annie and I will have supper in the parlor, with the door closed,” Rachel said softly. “It’s all right with you, ain’t so, Mam?”