The Postcard

by Beverly Lewis

  “Is that so?” Mam seemed pleased.

  “Jah, and we saw pennies—lotsa them!”

  “I think ya best tell Mammi Susanna whatcha really saw today, Annie,” Rachel cut in just then.

  “It was pennies! Hundreds of tiny pennies a-skippin’ down the creek.”

  Rachel waited for her darling child to ’fess up, though she wouldn’t have pushed for an end to this fantasy. Not yet anyways. Annie was having too much fun.

  “Let me guess,” Susanna said. “Was it very sunny out?”

  “Jah,” Annie replied.

  “And was it about noon, when the sun’s straight up in the sky?”

  “Jah.”

  “Then, I do believe what you saw out there in the creek was the sunlight dancing on the water. Am I right?” Mam’s voice wasn’t the least bit harsh, and for that Rachel was thankful.

  She could just imagine her daughter nodding her little head ever so slowly, head tilted down a bit, and big blue eyes looking up as innocently as she ever had back when she was only four years old. Annie was a dilly, she was.

  “How’dja know that, Mammi? And you weren’t even there,” said Annie, as serious as anything.

  “Oh, I’ve lived many a year if I’ve lived a day, so you ain’t tellin’ me anything new. There’s nothin’ new under the sun, I tell you.”

  Rachel was perty sure her little one was thinking Mammi Susanna might be wrong about that. That those shiny, bright pennies were as new as new could be. ’Course, if you’d never seen such a thing as glory-lights on a brook as it flowed joyously downstream, you just might be thinking the same thing.

  Emma’s Antique Shop was a thing of beauty. Well organized and attractive, the place was an antique shopper’s paradise. Even the smallest items such as dinnerware, tea sets, and odd dishes had been carefully arranged for display. On one wall, there were decorative plates with tiny crack lines indicating age as well as character. Stacked up in a corner hutch, odds and ends of turn-of-the-century yellowware caught Philip’s eye. The pieces reminded him of the old set belonging to his grandma Bradley, the same grandmother who sang to her African violets to make them grow. There was also an abundant assortment of sea green apothecary bottles, he noticed, and he was reaching for one of them when a cheerful voice rang out, “Let me know if I can help you find something.”

  He turned toward the register, searching for a face to match the engaging female voice. “I’m looking for a rolltop desk,” he said, wondering where Emma might be.

  Slowly, a young Mennonite woman emerged from behind the long counter. She wore a print dress in a tiny floral pattern, high at the throat and sleeves with lace trim at the wrists. Her prayer veiling was different from the formal caps he’d seen on older women. Shaped more like a bandanna, only white and edged with lace, it hung down gracefully in back. “Oh my,” she said, rolling up a dustcloth. “Someone oughta clean under there once in a while.” She broke into a smile then, catching his gaze. “It’s a desk you want? Now, let me see.” She glanced around the large room. “I know I’ve got one coming in next week. Would you care to see it then?”

  “Well, I’m from out of town, but I thought if you had something available, I’d take a look.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” she said, coming out into the aisle. “What was it you were looking for exactly?”

  He described to her the old desk in the bedroom at the Orchard Guest House. “It’s magnificent.”

  The woman’s eyes lit up. “I know that desk! I sold it to Susanna Zook myself.”

  He was surprised at the coincidence, and this on the heels of having just encountered the most discouraging Martha Stoltzfus. “I’ve hoped to find a desk similar to it ever since I first laid eyes on it. Wouldn’t it be nice if it had a twin somewhere?”

  “Maybe somewhere in England there’s another one just like it, though I doubt it.” She was grinning, nodding her head. “No . . . no, that desk was one of a kind, let me tell you.”

  A light switched on in his brain, and he knew he had to stick his neck out about the desk’s origins. “Would you happen to know where it came from . . . I mean, before you acquired it?”

  “As a matter of fact, I stumbled across it in a run-down secondhand store in downtown Reading, of all things. Not a soul there seemed to have any idea how old it was, and let me tell you, it was in sad shape when I bought it for a little bit of nothing. Now, don’t you tell any of this to Susanna Zook, you hear?”

  Philip nodded his promise, delighted to meet someone so cordial and willing to chat.

  “Before that, a lady in the store seemed to think Bishop Seth’s nephew by marriage had it holed up in a shed somewhere, waiting to be hauled off. And before that, I honestly don’t know.”

  Philip had to ask. “Who’s Bishop Seth?”

  “Oh, I almost forgot you’re not from around here.” She took a slight step backward before continuing. “Seth Fisher is the oldest Amish bishop living in Lancaster County. Last I heard, he was ninety-three. They call him the ‘anointed one’—guess that’s what his first name means. Anyway, it’s hard to believe it, but most of his wife’s family—her brothers and sisters, at least—were never even Amish, never joined church, I mean. Now, isn’t that something?”

  Philip nodded.

  The woman continued. “From what I know, Seth Fisher’s wife’s nephew, who had the desk, was a Baptist minister, of all things. I’ve forgotten the man’s name, but I think he pastored a church up in Reading somewhere. Anyway, that’s about all I know of Susanna Zook’s desk.”

  Philip’s head was spinning with more information than he might’ve hoped for. “Do you have a business card?” he asked, out of the blue, thinking that he might actually call the friendly woman and see if he couldn’t purchase an old desk from her sometime. If not next week, another time. And he told her so.

  “Oh my, yes.” She turned back to the counter. “I’ve got plenty here. How many do you want?”

  “One is fine,” he said and thanked her for her help, though he did not reveal just how much help the woman had been.

  Rachel tapped her cane across the hardwood floor in the common area of the B&B, following Annie. “We’re gonna have fun tonight,” she said, feeling her way to the Gift Nook. “We could sell some of those creek pennies of yours maybe, in the gift shop, ya know.”

  “Ach, Mamma, you’re pokin’ fun!”

  Laughing, Rachel unlocked the door and right away smelled the scented candles and other fragrances, a mishmash of odors, though she detected peach and strawberry real strong.

  “What’s on sale tonight?” Annie asked, standing beside her behind the small counter.

  “Nothin’s on sale, but everything’s for sale!”

  “Oh, I get it,” replied her daughter. “Jah, I like that.”

  Rachel could hear Annie’s pencil making circles on a pad of paper. “What’s that you’re drawing?” she asked.

  “Can ya guess?”

  “Maybe it’s pennies? From the creek?”

  Annie laughed. “Not that again, Mamma.” She quieted down quickly as a customer walked in. The footsteps were heavy, more like a man’s tread.

  “Well, it’s you again, Annie” came the man’s voice. “We seem to keep running into each other, don’t we?”

  Rachel recognized the mellow voice and felt herself stiffen. Feeling awful shy, she wondered if other guests had come in, too, or if the man was by himself.

  “I don’t mind it one bit, Mr. Philip. You can talk to me anytime ya want.”

  “That’s nice to know. Thank you, Annie.”

  “We have all sorts of souvenirs in here,” the girl said, “case you wanna take somethin’ back to New York.”

  “Annie dear,” whispered Rachel. She truly wished her daughter might remember the things they’d discussed on the way home from pumpkin-pickin’ yesterday.

  “I almost forgot, Mr. Philip. I’m not ’sposed to be talkin’ so awful much. My mamma says so.”

  Ach,
Annie, must ya go on so? thought Rachel, not only feeling shy but terribly awkward now as well.

  “And is this your mother?” the man asked.

  “Jah, she’s Mamma.” The next thing Rachel knew, Annie’s hand was on hers, pulling on it to shake with Philip Bradley. “Mr. Philip wants to meet you, Mamma. He’s real nice, so it’s all right if I talk to him this much, jah?”

  Rachel smiled at her little chatterbox. “Hullo, Mr. Bradley,” she said, feeling the warmth of his handshake before releasing it quickly.

  “Please, call me Philip. Mr. Bradley is much too formal for my taste.”

  “See, Mamma, I told you he was real nice.”

  She honestly wished Annie would stop talking altogether, though she wouldn’t have embarrassed her daughter for anything. “There’s lots of handmade items in the shop,” she managed to say, hoping Mr. Bradley wasn’t looking at her but had turned to see what was available maybe.

  “Yes, I noticed,” he replied. “And who’s responsible for making these lovely things?”

  “Oh, Mamma makes most everything in here,” Annie volunteered. “She can crochet as gut as anybody ’round Lancaster.”

  “I believe that must be true” came the courteous response.

  Rachel hadn’t realized she’d been clenching her hands during the conversation with Philip Bradley and Annie—a three-way chat to be sure. She willed herself to relax. There’s no reason to be so tense, she decided, though she wondered how long the man would stay in the tiny shop just talking and not looking.

  “Do you wanna buy something for your wife or children?” asked Annie.

  “That’s very nice of you to ask, but I’m not married.”

  “Oh,” said Annie, “that’s too bad.”

  “Well, I don’t mind being single. It’s not such a bad thing.” He was silent for a moment. Then—“I wonder if you might be able to tell me something, Annie? Something about how you celebrate Christmas. That is, if it’s all right with your mother.”

  “Is it, Mamma?”

  Rachel had no idea what on earth the man might want to be asking about Christmas, so she didn’t know if it was all right or not.

  But before she could speak, the young man said, “I’m working on a story for a magazine about Amish family traditions, and I have only one question to finish the story. Do you mind if I ask Annie what she received for Christmas last year?”

  Rachel almost laughed out of pure relief. This wasn’t going to be so hard after all. “Well, I guess so. If Annie can remember.”

  “ ’Course I remember, Mamma. I got this right here in my hand—a great big pad of rainbow papers and a set of colored pencils. Des is ewwe es Allerbescht.”

  Rachel knew Annie had been right surprised to get the thick pad of paper, but she really didn’t expect her to say what she did just now. Especially not in front of an Englischer, for goodness’ sake!

  “What’s des is ewwe . . . mean?” asked the man.

  “Oh, I’m awful sorry, Mr. Philip. I just said, ‘This is the best of all,’ ” Annie explained.

  “I’ll write that into my article, if you don’t mind,” he said with a quiet laugh. “And I think I’ll have one of these crocheted angels to take home with me . . . uh, Mrs. . . .”

  Rachel thought he was waiting for her to say her name, to introduce herself, but surely she must be mistaken. Quickly as it had come, she dismissed the silly thought.

  “It’s five dollars and fifty cents,” Annie said, helping the way she usually did.

  “And I’m giving you a ten-dollar bill,” Philip said.

  He knows I can’t see, Rachel thought, opening the register and making the correct change. The idea that he might have observed her and Annie this morning out at the creek made her feel even more uncomfortable. She handed the money to Annie to give to Philip Bradley, then felt for the box of tissue paper under the counter and began to wrap the crocheted angel.

  “Do you sew, too, Annie?” Philip asked.

  “A little bit.”

  “I saw some quilts today over at Martha Stoltzfus’s quilting barn.”

  “Jah, I’ve been there. Mamma and Mammi Susanna go there sometimes to make big quilts for the tourists.”

  “I think my niece would be a good quilter, too,” he said. “She likes needlework.”

  “What’s her name?” asked Annie.

  “Kari, and she wanted to come with me to visit Lancaster. I know she would like you and your mother . . . if she had.”

  “Oh, bring her along next time maybe.”

  He chuckled. “You know what? I believe Kari would enjoy that very much.”

  Rachel heard several more guests wander into the shop just then and she breathed a sigh of relief. The conversation with Annie and the Englischer had gone on much too long.

  “I’ll see ya tomorrow,” Annie said, and Rachel assumed that Philip Bradley had waved or made a motion toward the door.

  “It was wonderful to see you again, Annie and . . .”

  Rachel held her breath. He was waiting for her to mention her name!

  “Mamma’s name is Rachel,” Annie supplied.

  “Very nice to meet you, Rachel.”

  And with that, he was gone.

  Sixteen

  Philip thought he’d like to go to Reading and locate the cemetery where Gabe Esh was buried, but before heading out the next morning, he happened to notice Susanna changing the table runner in the dining room. The house was almost too quiet, so he assumed that most of the guests had already checked out, though he heard the soft clinking of silverware in the kitchen.

  Tentatively, he stepped into the large room, where a long pine farm table, stained ruby red, was surrounded by his favorite style of antique chair—the comb-back Windsor. On the wall opposite low, deep-silled windows, a tall, slantbacked cupboard, housing a set of white china, graced the space.

  “Excuse me, Susanna,” he said, getting her attention. “I don’t mean to bother you, but I’m curious about a particular man, Gabe Esh, who wrote the postcard—the one I showed you yesterday. Would you happen to know if his fiancée is still alive?”

  Her face went ashen at the mention of the card. “I . . . uh, I don’t have any idea what happened. . . .” She caught her breath and tried to continue. “His fiancée, you say?”

  “Yes—Adele Herr. Do you know what may have become of her?”

  Susanna shook her head repeatedly. “Honestly, I wish you’d never found that . . . that horrid thing,” she was saying, her face turning from white to pink. “I wish you’d just leave things be. It’s none of your business, really it ain’t.”

  “Please forgive me. I didn’t intend to upset you this way.”

  She pulled a chair out and had to sit down. “It’s not the kind of thing you wanna delve into, Mr. Bradley, and I’m sorry that I didn’t come across that postcard myself. Seems to me I oughta be askin’ you for it back.” Her final sentence had turned into a bit of muttering, but Philip had heard nevertheless.

  “I’m just trying to put some pieces together, that’s all. I wouldn’t think of causing trouble,” he assured her.

  There was a sudden commotion behind Susanna—young Annie, coming into the common area from the kitchen, carrying an armful of soiled cloth napkins, place mats, and dish towels. “Mammi Susanna, I think I need some help,” the child said, about to drop the load.

  “Here, let me help you,” he said, taking the pile from her. “Just head me in the right direction.”

  “That would be around the corner, down the hall, and down the cellar steps,” Susanna said rather tersely. “And I must say, since we bought this house, I’ve never, ever allowed a guest to help thisaway. ”

  He heard the edginess in her voice and knew she was more upset over the postcard questions than his assistance with Annie’s load of dirty towels. Yet she followed him down the hall and on down the cellar steps, with little Annie close behind.

  In the end it was Rachel’s daughter who saved the day, diverting
Susanna’s attention away from Philip’s questions. “Mamma needs ya just now.”

  Susanna responded by showing him where to put the laundry items. “Thanks for helpin’ my granddaughter out,” she said, heading for the stairs.

  Philip knew the woman expected him to follow, and follow he did, up the stairs and into the hallway. When he came to the second flight of stairs, he turned and made his departure to the southeast guest room.

  Susanna’s reaction to the boarder’s questions had flustered her no end. Even worse, Rachel must’ve overheard part of the conversation in the dining room, and now that Susanna was in the kitchen, Rachel wanted to know how Mr. Philip Bradley knew about her great-uncle.

  “I couldn’t believe my ears—I honestly thought I heard him askin’ about your uncle, Gabriel Esh,” said Rachel, frowning.

  “Jah, you heard right, but you also must’ve heard me say that it’s not nobody’s business what went on back forty years ago. That includes you, my dear. Besides, it ain’t right to be talkin’ so awful much about a dead man under the shun.”

  “Why was your uncle shunned, Mam?” Rachel seemed to be looking right at her, and even though Susanna knew her daughter couldn’t make out her face or her frame, she almost wondered now as she stood there if the young woman’s sight had suddenly returned. Himmel, there was almost a bold look on her daughter’s face, and it got her thinking how to smooth this whole ridiculous dialogue over, bring it to a quick end.

  “No need us wastin’ precious time talking ’bout what’s over and done with,” she said softly, hoping her tone might quell the matter. She surely didn’t want to open that can of worms.

  Rachel stood near the sink, the breakfast silverware in her hand. Susanna fully expected her to turn back to the task of drying the knives, forks, and spoons, but Rachel shuffled past her, without reaching for her cane, sliding her bare feet along the floor, the utensils and dish towel still in her hands. “Where’re you going, Daughter?”

  When there was no reply, she decided to let things drop. No way, nohow, did she ever want Rachel to inquire about Gabe Esh again. Not the way her daughter seemed so hesitant toward the area healers. Not the way she’d wavered about Blue Johnny these many years.