The Postcard

by Beverly Lewis

  Rachel sat on the deacon’s bench in the entryway, waiting for the New York man to come downstairs. She didn’t rightly know how she would find her voice and ask the stranger what she wanted to know. It was a hard thing to cross the unspoken line the People had drawn between themselves and outsiders. Yet all her life she had wished for someone to talk to her about the mysterious great-uncle on her mother’s side. But just about the time she’d get up a speck of pluck to ask, the wind was knocked out of her courage.

  The last time she’d almost stuck her neck out and asked about Gabe Esh was the day she’d ridden along to town with Dat, nearly a month ago. They’d been talking about this and that, most anything that came to mind; her father had spilled the beans and said he’d purchased a set of Bible tapes for her to listen to. “Don’t be tellin’ anyone ’bout it, though,” he’d said.

  She’d come that close to blurting her question out. In all her days, she’d never known or heard of a person being shunned for no gut cause. Surely there must be some important reason why.

  Another time she thought of asking someone like her cousin Esther to write a letter to Bishop Glick—Esther’s husband’s grandfather—since she figured the bishop would surely know about Gabe’s shunning, but she didn’t want to step on Esther’s toes, using her that way. If Bishop Glick was the sort of man her Jacob had been, she might’ve felt she could speak to him privately—in the presence of his wife, of course—but the bishop was rather reserved, not someone you could just walk up to after a preachin’ service and ask a question like that. Bishop Glick was as reticent, folks said, as she herself was. Still, Rachel wondered what things he might know—what others in the community knew but weren’t saying.

  “Good morning, Rachel.” Hearing her name spoken by a man jolted her out of her musing.

  “Oh, hullo,” she said, almost forgetting why she’d sat here so close to the front door.

  “Have a nice day, and tell Annie I said good-bye.”

  Philip’s kind voice encouraged her to reply. “Are you leaving?” she said, then realized what he meant, that he was saying good-bye just for the day.

  “No . . . no.” He laughed, and she felt her cheeks heat at her blunder. “I’m paid through until Saturday. Can’t let a terrific room like that slip through my fingers.”

  She didn’t quite know how to respond to that, but she was surprised that she was able to get any words out at all. Here she was talking to the sophisticated New York guest. “May I . . . I mean, would it be all right . . . if I ask you a question?”

  “You certainly may. What is it, Rachel?”

  She was taken a little by surprise, the way he said her name—kind and gentle-like. “I heard you talking to my mother about Gabe Esh a little while ago.”

  “Yes?”

  “How did you know him?”

  “Well, I didn’t know him at all. I found an old postcard in the desk upstairs . . . in my room, which he wrote forty years ago.”

  “A postcard . . . from Gabe Esh? Who was he writing to?”

  “Here, let me show it to you. Maybe you’ll know more about this. It’s written in Pennsylvania Dutch, but I’ll read the translation to you.”

  Slowly, he began. Rachel was silent, listening intently. “Oh my, what a mysterious and beautiful message,” she said when he finished.

  “Do you know who Adele Herr was?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, I’ve never heard of her. But I, too, am curious . . . been wanting to know more about my great-uncle . . . for many years now.”

  “Gabe was your great-uncle?”

  “Jah, on Mam’s side of the family.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, what did my mother say about her?”

  He was silent, and she wondered why. Then he said softly, “Your mother seemed quite troubled by this, so perhaps you should speak to her. I don’t want to cause problems.”

  She was quite taken aback by his sincerity. “Thank you, Mr. Bradley. That is very kind.”

  “Philip—remember? I don’t quite know how to react to anything more formal.”

  He’d said precisely the same thing last evening, and she felt foolish about having forgotten. “I apologize, Philip,” she said, enjoying the sound of his name.

  “That’s quite all right. And, if it should work out for me to relay to you any information I might uncover today— about your uncle—I will certainly do that.”

  “Denki,” she said, almost without thinking. “Thank you very much.”

  “Well, it’s another warm day. Maybe you and Annie will go for another walk.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. We’ll be makin’ applesauce and picklin’ beets today,” she said, aware that the silverware and dish towel were still in her hands. “There may not be much time for walkin’.”

  “Well, then, good-bye,” he said and was out the door before she realized that she’d talked nearly a blue streak to a stranger. And an Englischer at that.

  Rachel was standing at the back door, waiting for Annie to fill Copper’s water dish outside. She heard Mam scurrying about the kitchen, straightening things up before they headed off to Lavina’s.

  “I don’t know what you were thinkin’, talking to Philip Bradley thataway, Rachel. It was like you were just tarryin’ there for him to come downstairs.”

  She wondered how much her mother had overheard, though she didn’t think it was much to worry about. “He seems nice enough” was all she said.

  “He’s a snoop, and he’s got his gall nosin’ into our family business.”

  Rachel said nothing, knowing from past experience it was best not to egg Mamma on. Susanna hadn’t heard everything Philip had said, though now to think of it, Rachel could scarcely believe the conversation had taken place at all. What had come over her to speak to a stranger like that? She’d told him something she’d never told a soul on earth except Cousin Esther, for goodness’ sake! So now Mr. Philip Bradley knew just how curious she was about Gabe Esh, and that she had been all her life.

  On the buggy ride to Lavina’s, she second-guessed herself, worrying that she’d made a mistake talking to a stranger. One thing was sure—he had the nicest-sounding voice she thought she’d ever heard. And wonder of wonders, he was on his way to dig up information about Gabriel Esh. And Adele Herr.

  Adele Herr ain’t Amish, she thought.

  Could it be true that Gabriel Esh had had an English sweetheart, like the postcard seemed to indicate? Was that the reason for his shunning?

  Philip took Interstate 176 to Reading, eager to get there as soon as possible. He wanted to have plenty of time to locate Gabe’s grave marker, if there was one, before heading back to Lancaster in order to meet Stephen Flory for supper at the Bird-in-Hand Family Restaurant. He also wanted to do some checking, see if anyone in the area might have known Adele or knew the date of her passing. Ultimately, if need be, he could search microfilms for a death notice, but he much preferred the human connection. The tenderness with which the postcard’s message had been written and the fact that the postcard itself had been entrusted to him were, perhaps, the driving forces behind his desire, spurring him on to locate both Gabe’s final resting place and Adele herself, though he feared the lady might also be deceased.

  Between Plowville and Green Hills he wiled away the miles, talking to his sister on his cell phone. “Thought I’d check in and let you know your brother’s still alive and kicking.”

  “How’s the article coming?” asked Janice.

  “Nearly finished.”

  “You’re always in a rush, aren’t you, looking ahead to the next project? Never take a minute to sigh.”

  “Not this time. I’m actually thinking of joining up with the Amish.” He laughed. “So . . . how would you and Kari like to come help me run a bed-and-breakfast in Pennsylvania?”

  “In Amish country?” She was hooting. “What would Ken say?”

  “Just get him here, then we’ll tell him. I’m not kidding— it’s beau
tiful.”

  “Hey, you’re sounding like your old self. What’s happened? Did you meet a girl?”

  He snorted. “Like I need one more failed relationship.”

  “Don’t get sarcastic with me. You just sound so good . . . well rested or something.”

  “I like that—the rested part.”

  “Kari misses you,” said Janice. “Maybe you can give her a call when you get home tomorrow.”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I’m staying till Saturday . . . rescheduled my flight and everything.”

  “How come?”

  “I’m on a fast track to solving an old, old mystery. What do you think of that?”

  “Doesn’t sound like you, Phil. What’s going on?”

  “Hey, that’s interesting—you’re starting to sound worried, more like the old Janice.”

  “You’re bad,” she said. “What are you really doing there?”

  “No joking, I’m playing detective with a forty-year-old postcard as my guide, and if you don’t think this is fascinating, you’ll just have to wait and read the book.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Phil? You didn’t just say you’re planning to write a book, did you? You can’t sit still long enough to tie your shoes. What is it . . . a novel?”

  “I’m toying with the idea, that’s all.” He wouldn’t let her get the best of him.

  They talked for a few more minutes, then he hung up to look at the map, glad that Janice hadn’t chosen this phone chat to lecture him about slowing down, getting married, joining a church.

  His mind wandered back to the peculiar scene in the entryway of Zooks’ Orchard Guest House. Annie’s beautiful, blind mother had clearly been waiting for him, sitting there on an old deacon’s bench just to the right of the front door. It struck him as odd even now—that she had wanted to ask about Gabe Esh—and the way she had brought up the subject almost seemed as if her mother’s uncle had been kept a deep, dark secret. Martha Stoltzfus had given the same impression.

  Something had startled him about seeing Rachel sitting in the foyer, holding silverware in one hand and a white dish towel in the other, so quiet and still—the way he’d seen her in the parlor with Annie that first day. He’d initially shrugged it off, thinking she may have been merely resting, not waiting to speak to him at all. He hadn’t known why a thought like that might cross his mind. Rachel, after all, had not a single reason to speak to him. She was Amish, and from everything he’d gleaned of Plain women, they didn’t go out of their way to talk to outsiders.

  So he’d just assumed she was catching her breath. Nothing more. He also had the feeling that Susanna Zook took advantage of her daughter and any and all help she could get around the place. Husband Benjamin included. The man was constantly weeding the garden or trimming the lawn, working the acreage just as he surely must have worked his farm for many years. Farming was probably in the retired man’s blood—couldn’t help but be—and Philip had an inkling he knew what that might feel like, though he’d never had a real chance at plowing or planting sunup to sundown. He would have been happy to have the experience of such a day, though; had even attempted to keep up with his grandpap several summers in a row at the Vermont cottage, there being a good amount of land behind the house.

  The Amish B&B family—the Zooks and their daughter and granddaughter—certainly made up a unique nucleus of people. Three generations under one roof. He didn’t know why it bothered him that Rachel was blind. Perhaps it was because her daughter was so vivacious and alive, so outgoing. And where was Rachel’s husband? Dead? Divorced? Hardly, according to Abram Beiler, who had said all the area bishops spoke out severely against divorce. “We turn lemons into lemonade, but no divorcing ’round here,” Abram had said during the interview.

  Philip hadn’t realized it until just this moment, but he was indeed interested in knowing more about the entire Zook family. Only two days remained. Could he tend to Gabe Esh and Adele Herr and learn more about the Zooks in such a short time?

  “Mmm, delicious,” Rachel said, smelling bushels of tart Macintosh apples as they walked through the screened-in porch at Lavina’s. The fresh apple smell covered Lavina’s usual garlic-ridden kitchen odor.

  “We’re here—anybody home?” called Mam, guiding Rachel inside.

  “Hullo . . . hullo! Smell them apples, Rachel? I’m tellin’ ya they’re the best apples this year, ain’t?” Lavina said as Rachel, Annie, and Mam made their way to the kitchen.

  “It’s a gut day for making applesauce, too,” Mam chimed in. “Not so warm as it’s been.”

  “How’s Annie?” Lavina asked.

  “Wonderful-gut!” replied Annie herself. “And I brought some extra raw sugar. In case we run out.”

  Annie’s enthused response was met with laughter, and by that Rachel knew that most of the group had assembled. She didn’t hold out any hope of hearing a hullo from either Molly or Sadie Mae, even though Mam had informed her of Leah’s comment—that the girls were coming.

  Rachel was just content to be around Lavina again. It had been a gut long time since she’d worked in the dear woman’s kitchen, soakin’ up some of her unique perspectives on life, love, and family, among other things.

  “Here, Mamma, can you hold this for me?” It was Annie pushing the bag of sugar into Rachel’s hand. Applesauce, the way they made it, needed a good dose of sugar to mix with the delicious tartness of the Macintosh. Nothin’ like homemade applesauce, especially made at Lavina’s house. ’Course, her father’s cousin was no ordinary woman. Something didn’t seem quite right about her, though it had never bothered Rachel a bit. Spending time with her all day—canning or quilting—was always pleasant. Lavina had a sweet, giving spirit, and that’s what came shining through, when all was said and done.

  Rachel had overheard talk of a mental condition, when first she’d come to make apple butter in late October, years ago. She was only thirteen when one of her cousins remarked that Lavina was one of “God’s special children,” as if she were a product of a marriage of first cousins, but that wasn’t the case. Rachel didn’t understand the label at that time— not where Lavina was concerned—because she’d never had reason to think there was anything wrong with her father’s cousin before then. Sure, Lavina had never married, but that didn’t mean there was something amiss with her mind.

  Rachel set about washing a bushel basketful of apples, helping several others while Mam, Aunt Leah, Molly, and Sadie Mae began pulling out stems and quartering the clean ones, preparing to boil them, skin and all. She felt she understood Lavina a lot better these days. Certain of the People had called her mental, too, and all because of her reluctance to go to the powwow doctors. She knew what they said behind her back. She may be blind, but she wasn’t stupid.

  They were boiling the apples, a whole batch of them at once, when Lavina let slip the most peculiar thing. She said it loud enough so everyone heard. “Martha Stoltzfus had herself an English visitor yesterday afternoon, and you’ll never guess who that stranger was asking ’bout.”

  “Who?” Leah spoke up.

  “Gabriel Esh, of all people,” Lavina replied. “Nobody’s had the grit to bring up his name in nigh onto forty years.”

  Rachel perked up her ears. “Who was the stranger?” she said so softly she didn’t expect to be heard.

  “Some fella named Philip Bradley is what I heard,” Lavina replied. “And I got it straight from Martha’s mouth— hers and Bertha Denlinger’s—ya know, up at the hardware store.”

  They all knew. Lavina didn’t have to say where Bertha was workin’ these days. Fact was, the women—both Martha and Bertha—had a negative outlook on life, far as Rachel was concerned. Neither one of them ever seemed to look on the bright side of things. Not anything; not ever.

  Most amazing was how Mamma kept mum during all the talk at Lavina’s. Rachel was mighty sure if she hadn’t witnessed it for herself—if she hadn’t been present to know how tight-lipped Mam was being about their New York B&B gues
t—well, she might not have believed it. Truth was, Mam prob’ly wouldn’t be volunteering one thing, wouldn’t want the women to know her guest was nosing around, stirring up something that was best left alone.

  But, then again, maybe it would turn out that it was a right gut thing that Philip Bradley had found that postcard and poked around after all.

  ’Course, all that remained to be seen. . . .

  The stone wall surrounding the Reading cemetery reminded Philip of a cemetery he’d visited in England many months before. It was the Old-World setting he recalled— ancient trees with gnarled roots extended and exposed, leaf-filtered sunlight, and the overall serenity of gravestones. Weathered granite markers commingled with tall, stately headstones—some with angels, some with crosses. The day had been much different, however, with drizzle and fog, not like the sunny Pennsylvania morning he was presently enjoying, with temperatures high in the sixties.

  He parked the car and got out, not knowing where to begin his actual search. He could walk down each row of markers, he supposed, but that could take all day. Then he spied the groundskeeper, a tall, thin, older gentleman, edging a circular section of lawn just below the crest of a hill.

  Eager to make contact with him, Philip quickened his pace. “Excuse me, sir.”

  The old man stopped his work and leaned on a medium-sized headstone, mopping his brow. “Hello,” he replied.

  “I wonder if you might be able to help me locate the marker for a Gabriel Esh.”

  “Gabriel . . . like the angel?”

  Nodding, Philip realized he hadn’t thought of the name being linked to the heavenly host. “According to an old obituary, he’s buried in this cemetery.”

  The man’s face was tired and drawn. “Yes, I know who you’re talking about. He’s buried seven rows over, in that direction.” He pointed to the north. “It’s quite peculiar, really, when you think of it.”