The Postcard

by Beverly Lewis

  Her face was bright with a smile, and today she wore a tiny white head covering similar to Susanna’s adult-sized one. “I never heard nobody talk like you do.”

  “Never met anyone from New York City, then, did you?”

  She shook her head slowly, and just the way she did, Philip remembered her grandmother, Susanna, doing the same thing, the same way, after reading the postcard. “Are you from New York?” asked Annie, still grinning.

  “Born and raised in the Big Apple. I’m what you call a city guy, but”—and here he squatted down, placing himself at eye level with the darling child—“I have to tell you a secret.”

  “A secret? I like secrets.” Her light brown eyebrows rose higher.

  “Then I’ll tell you.” He lowered his voice. “I’m not much for big cities. They’re noisy and busy and—”

  “Why’d you come here?” she interrupted. “To find bigger apples?”

  He couldn’t help himself—he laughed. Such an adorable child. He would have six or seven little girls just like this if ever he found the right woman to marry. “I came to meet you, Annie.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes.” He straightened now to his full height. “Would you like to go down to breakfast with me?”

  “Okay, but I can’t eat with you. You’re a guest, and I live here all the time.” She turned and bounced toward the stairs. “Just follow me, mister.”

  “My name is Philip,” he said, jumping at the chance to introduce himself. Might be beneficial later.

  “Mr. Philip,” she replied. “Mamma would want me to call you Mister first.”

  “That’s okay with me.” And he followed her down the steps, congratulating himself on having made a new friend. A special little friend indeed!

  Rachel waited till after all the guests had cleared out of the breakfast area before asking Dat if she could talk to him. “It oughta be somewhere private,” she said.

  “Well, then, we’ll walk outside. How’s that?” Benjamin said, finding Rachel’s walking cane.

  She didn’t have the energy to resist his suggestion. After all, it had been weeks since she’d ventured farther than a few short walks with Annie.

  Dat guided her to the back door, and once they were outside, she brought up the topic that had troubled her. “I don’t rightly know how to begin.”

  “It’s not necessary to mince words with me, Rachel.”

  Fresh smells of autumn filled the air, and she remembered her promise to Annie to help gather pumpkins. “I oughta make this short,” she continued. “But I’m thinkin’ that besides young Joshua, someone might be giving Annie an earful—about certain things, you know?”

  “Well, now, if you mean the accident, I think I know exactly what you’re askin’.”

  For a fleeting moment, she wished she could see Dat’s face, witness the way the smile lines had carved deep furrows at the corners of his mouth, see the sincerity and goodness in his eyes. Surely he had not been the one to tell Annie. Ach, surely not.

  “She’s still so young, ain’t? And a mite small for her age, too,” Rachel added.

  “Jah, she’s that. Still, it’s time you sit her down and talk things out with her, tell how her father and brother died . . . from your point of view. Best not to keep her in the dark any longer.”

  She wondered if he’d said it that way—in the dark—to drive home a point. But she thought better of it. ’Twasn’t her place to be questionin’ her father. After all, she was under his protective covering and guidance as a single woman, in spite of the fact that she was raising a child.

  “So has Annie overheard things from you and Mam?”

  “Not overheard . . . outright told her,” Dat replied, his voice stern yet soft. “If it makes you uneasy, then I s’pose you’d best be tellin’ your daughter what you remember.”

  She sighed. “I don’t remember anything. Not one thing.” It was absolutely true, and with all her heart, she wished he hadn’t questioned her. “In all of two years, nothin’s changed, Dat.”

  “I don’t doubt you. You’ve always been a woman of integrity, pleasing to the Lord. Bless you for that. But I beg to differ with you on Annie bein’ talked to about the accident and all that it summons forth.” Benjamin Zook had spoken, and there would be no pushing the issue. His word stood, and she resigned herself to respect and conform to his opinion.

  They walked a bit farther, down the gravel footpath through the orchard. She breathed in the sweet aroma around her, felt the warmth of the sun on her face, and wondered why she didn’t come outside more often.

  Dat guided her, turning her around at the end of the walkway, and step by step they headed back to the yard and to the house. “It’s gut to see ya come outside for a spell,” he said. “The sun and air’s gut for you.”

  “Mam and Annie are always saying the same thing.”

  “Well, it’s high time you listened,” he said, chortling.

  “Jah, you’re right about that.” They laughed together, heading inside again. Rachel felt no animosity toward her father for bringing it up, but she wondered how to approach the subject of the accident with Annie. And when?

  Susanna was upstairs, stripping the sheets from the beds in the southeast room—Philip Bradley’s room. She knew enough not to meddle in his business, wouldn’t think of poking around in a paying guest’s personal affairs. Still, she was mighty tempted to go a-fishin’ in the dresser drawer, searchin’ for that there postcard. Why on earth hadn’t she taken it and ripped it up when she had the chance?

  Ach, she’d behaved so . . . ferhoodled, her sisters would be sayin’ if they knew what she’d done—and right there in front of that reporter-writer fella, no less. Benjamin would be terrible disappointed in her, too. Thing was, she had no plans to tell anyone of the postcard from that lunatic uncle of hers. Best if Gabe Esh had never been born Amish, let alone to be found writing such things. No wonder the Old Order had had to treat him like a shunned man—and this before he’d ever joined church, though at nearly thirty, his kin had perty much given up anyways. Well, she wasn’t gonna let this keep on a-botherin’ her all the live-long day.

  Now . . . where would a big-city reporter put a thing like an old postcard? She honestly didn’t want to go a-lookin’ for it, but the more she thought of it, the more she knew she oughta at least try and retrieve it. And the sooner the better.

  First place she looked was in the trash can near the desk, though she had no real hope of finding anything. Truly, by the curious look on Philip Bradley’s face, she s’posed he might just go off and ask someone to translate the message on the postcard for him. ’Course, then again, she easily could’ve misread his expression. She stood up and took a deep breath, deciding it was best to just forget the whole thing. Surely there was nothing to worry about anyhow.

  Hastily, she put fresh sheets on the bed, dusted the furniture, and dry-mopped the floor. Rachel could finish up in the bathroom, replace the old soap and soiled towels with fresh, and wipe down the shower.

  Her arms loaded up with sheets, she ran into Annie in the hall. “Mammi, Mammi, I know a secret!” the little girl said.

  “Oh, is that right?” she muttered, hoping that whatever her granddaughter had to say wouldn’t take too awful long.

  “Mr. Philip wants to be a farmer, I think. He don’t like city noises with big apples and he—”

  “Who?”

  “You know, that tall New York fella . . . with the funnysoundin’ talk.” Annie’s face was alight with glee.

  “You were talkin’ to Philip Bradley?” she broke into the prattle.

  “He’s real nice, Mammi. Honest, he is.”

  She wondered what else Mister Philip had told the child. “Why don’tcha help me get these sheets downstairs,” she said, wanting to change the subject.

  Annie giggled, playing horsey with the tail end of one of the sheets. “I’ll help you. Giddy-up!”

  She didn’t say it, but she wondered how long before one of them—eit
her Benjamin or herself—would have to ask Annie not to talk so openly or get too chummy with the English guests that came their way. Especially those that came a-callin’ from the newspapers and whatnot all.

  Eleven

  Philip spent part of an hour at the County Barn, which was in reality a renovated tobacco shed on an Amish farm. The place still had that faint, sweet pipe-smoking odor. He looked around for a while, paying more attention to various British tourists than to any one item in the entire shop.

  Next, he stopped off at Fisher’s Handmade Quilts and, for the first time, actually took notice of the intricate patterns and highly colorful pieces that went into making an Amish quilt. He thought again of Kari and felt bad that he had rejected his niece’s plea to accompany him here. Sure, she and Janice would have had a good time—he would’ve seen to it—but he wondered how things might’ve turned out with them having to tag along to his interviews and all. Too late now.

  The restaurant was humming with tourists. Philip registered his name with the hostess, waiting for Stephen Flory. He reached inside his sports jacket and felt the postcard there, while around him sightseers chattered about candle barns and basket lofts. The recent drug bust, involving two young Amishmen, seemed to be the biggest buzz on visitors’ lips.

  He had questioned Bob Snell, his editor, when given this assignment, asking why a follow-up feature on the drug incident wouldn’t be a good idea. “Amish family traditions— that’s what I’m after,” Bob had insisted.

  So Philip’s story was to be a “soft” spread, covering the customs and rituals of the American Old Order family unit. He liked the idea of focusing on Christmas and other holiday traditions, though he’d read that the Old Order bishops didn’t encourage putting up trees or stringing up colorful decorations either inside or out, steering members away from worldly holiday merriment. In fact, the common practice of exchanging gifts was largely ignored in some church districts, except, of course, in the case of small children. Gift giving was especially impractical among families with many children.

  He thought of Annie and wondered if she might tell him what gifts she had received for Christmas last year, though he couldn’t count on having another opportunity to converse with her. Philip had noticed the guests at breakfast, all of them eager to hear more about Amish life. Some of them actually seemed interested in quitting their day jobs and moving to the community. One woman said she’d like to talk with an Amish elder about how to join the church.

  He thought it a bit boorish of the woman, talking that way, though Susanna didn’t seem flustered by it. In fact, she seemed genuinely interested in helping the woman understand the transition involved. “Going Plain ain’t so easy for outsiders. Most Englischers who come our way, thinking they’re ready to join church, last, oh, a couple of months, if that. Some fit in better than others, though, so it’s hard to know for sure who’ll keep their vow and who won’t.”

  The thoroughly modern woman’s spirits had not been dampened one iota by Susanna’s comments, and he’d heard her tell another guest after breakfast that she was very serious about becoming Plain. “I can’t wait for someone to teach me to quilt—that’s going to be lots of fun.”

  Lots of fun . . .

  He couldn’t imagine the woman even remotely fitting in at a work frolic, or so the Amish called their quilting bees. She had fake fingernails as long as any he’d seen, airbrushed hot pink and silver with gemstones glued to the tips. How did she expect to be able to produce the tiny stitches required to create the colorful, expensive quilts hanging in all the tourist traps around Lancaster? He wanted to ask her if she was willing to abandon her personal glamour—nails, lipstick, and dyed hair—for the good of the Amish community. However, he thought better of it and kept quiet. Yet he wondered about Susanna’s comment—“Some outsiders last only a couple of months.”

  What made the difference? Was it background that made it easier for some folk to “fit in better than others”? And what of the baptismal vow? Did modern folk just assume they could make a haphazard promise to God and the Amish church, only to break it if things didn’t work out? Something akin to modern-day marriage vows, he supposed.

  “Excuse me. Are you Philip Bradley?” A tall blond man in his mid-thirties approached him with a warm smile.

  “Yes, I am. And you must be Stephen Flory.”

  They shook hands in the crowded entrance to the dining room. “A popular place,” Philip commented, glancing around.

  “You should see it in the summer. Lancaster is swarming with out-of-state folks. It’s one of the top five tour-bus destinations. Isn’t it amazing, the draw the Amish have?”

  Philip nodded. “I read somewhere that one tourist actually thought the Amish were actors, hired by the county to pull in tourism dollars.”

  Stephen laughed. “You’d think folks would be more savvy. But then, if you’ve never seen the likes of horse-drawn buggies and mule-powered plowing, I guess a person might wonder.”

  Philip heard his name being paged, along with several others. “Our table’s ready,” he said, falling in step with the other man. “After that hearty breakfast Susanna Zook served this morning, I must confess I’m not very hungry.”

  “Susanna’s an excellent cook, I hear.”

  “Aren’t most Amishwomen?” Philip commented, following the restaurant hostess into the large dining room.

  After a light lunch and some preliminary talk—a few basic questions from Philip regarding the Amish—they rode in Stephen’s car to New Holland, a seven-mile trip north of Intercourse.

  “I wasn’t sure what to expect when I arrived here,” Philip admitted. “If it hadn’t been for a quick phone chat with my sister, I’m afraid I would be even more ignorant of Amish ways. I thought I was coming to research a people who embraced a Quaker-like religion, but I’m finding out there is much more to them.”

  “They live out their faith daily,” Stephen replied. “It’s a lifestyle . . . a total culture. But they’d be the first to tell you they aren’t perfect.”

  They pulled into a dirt lane and spotted a man who had to be Abram Beiler, sitting on the L-shaped front porch. A wide straw hat sat atop his hoary head, and he wore a black vest over a long-sleeved white shirt. His gray-white beard was long and untrimmed.

  “Looks like Abram’s ready for Sunday-go-to-meeting,” Stephen commented, turning off the ignition and straightening his tie. He turned to Philip, lowering his voice. “Before we go in, you should know that Abram’s straddling the fence between the Old Order and maybe Beachy Amish, I don’t know. He and several other families are a little upset with their bishop and some of the preachers.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Some problems in the church district,” Stephen explained. “Half the community sides with the bishop’s recent sanctioning of cell phones and pagers. The other half’s rankled over it.”

  “Cell phones . . . are you kidding?”

  Stephen shook his head. “They seem to be testing the waters, so to speak.”

  Philip had to admit he hadn’t heard any of this, though he found it quite interesting. Rather humorous, too. “Does Abram own a cell phone?”

  “Amish farmers aren’t the ones using them. It’s the woodworkers and blacksmiths, but especially the women who own craft and quilt shops. I have to tell you, Philip, the Plain community is changing by leaps and bounds.”

  “Oh” was all Philip said. Seemed to him that a farmer could benefit from a cell phone as well as anyone else.

  Abram was coming down the front porch steps as they got out of the car. “Wie geht’s, gentlemen. Name’s Abram Beiler. I come from a long string of Beilers—even got me a cousin down in Hickory Hollow. A bishop, he is.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Abram,” said Stephen, shaking the Amishman’s hand. “I’m Stephen Flory, and here’s Philip Bradley, the writer I told you about . . . from up north a piece.”

  “New York City, ain’t?”

  “That’s right,” Philip chim
ed in, extending his hand and receiving the man’s strong grip in return. “Good to meet you, Abram. Nice of you to agree to talk with us.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ really. ’Tis always fun meeting up with interesting Englischers.” He chuckled and motioned for them to follow him into the house.

  The front room was as sparsely furnished as Philip’s sister had said an Old Order Amish living room would be. Two hickory rockers sat side by side near the corner windows, as well as a tan couch with a purple and black afghan folded neatly over one arm. A number of multicolored rag rugs adorned the unstained pine floor, imparting a dry, silvery look. One especially large rug—a circular one in the middle of the long room—boasted nearly every color of the rainbow. There was a scenic calendar on the north wall, but no other decorations or pictures. On one small table in the corner, two kerosene lamps stood at perfect attention.

  Abram promptly went to the kitchen and brought out a straight-backed cane chair for Philip. Stephen and Abram sat in the matching rockers.

  “Ask away,” said Abram, pulling on his scraggly beard. “You ain’t the first fella with questions about us Amish folk.”

  “It’s not always easy finding the right person to interview,” Philip was quick to say.

  “Jah, I s’pose that’s true.”

  Philip began his conversation inquiring of daily family traditions, then worked his way to Christmas and Easter. He discovered, quite pleasantly, that there was another holiday observed by Lancaster County Amish—Second Christmas on December 26, a day set aside to visit with relatives and friends, offering yet another respite from work.

  Abram was quick to point out that New Year’s Day was little cause for much celebrating in Amish circles, albeit the People made note of the passing of another year. There was no special church meeting on New Year’s Day, but “the young people sometimes use it as an excuse to have a school program,” he added with a wry smile.

  Irreconcilable differences in marriage were discussed next. “When a man and woman can’t make things work out together, they might up an’ separate,” Abram explained, “and if they do, one or both will like as not leave the community. But those who do stay understand clearly that there’ll be no remarryin’.”