The Postcard

by Beverly Lewis

  Rachel stayed put in her bedroom till after Annie was sound asleep. She got down on her hands and knees and rummaged around, trying to locate the electrical outlet near the bed, hoping she wouldn’t cause too much noise and alert Mam. She didn’t want Susanna to know she was still up, not this late, and she wanted complete privacy in listening to Esther’s tape.

  As it turned out, there had been no time to talk heart to-heart with her little one as she’d planned. Mam had requested another round of Bible reading after supper. Dat had obliged, though it was apparent by the monotone that his heart wasn’t much in it. Mam’s doing, for sure.

  Once Annie was bathed and dressed in her nightgown, it was too late to get such a serious talk started. Too late for a little girl to drift off to dreamland, thinking of the daddy she’d lost to death and the bright-eyed older brother no longer alive to tease or play with her.

  So their talk would wait till tomorrow, after breakfast prob’ly. That’s what Rachel decided and felt better about it. She hoped and prayed the dear Lord would guide her words, help her say the things that truly should be said, according to Dat and Mam anyways.

  Sliding the volume down all the way to the lowest setting, she pushed the tape into the recorder and began to listen for the soft voice of her cousin.

  Dearest Rachel,

  I couldn’t wait a minute longer for a letter from you, so I’m starting this tape now. It’s Monday night, September thirteenth, and the house is as quiet as it ever gets around here, I s’pose. I trust everything’s all right there with you, that you’re healthy and Annie’s well, too. Guess you’re busy during the fall tourist season, and we are, too, but in a different way. I’ve put up more applesauce than ever; pickles, corn, succotash, and more chowchow, too.

  Levi’s been visiting with our preacher quite a lot this week. God continues to show us individually—and in the church body here—the importance of identifying generational sins and repenting of them. More and more, different ones in our church district are coming forward to confess patterns of family sins. What a joy to know that our prayers and testimony of faith are making a difference.

  How’re Susanna and Benjamin? We’re praying for your parents more than ever, that the Lord will work in their hearts through His Word and through the nudging of the Holy Spirit, and that old Bishop Seth will wake up to the truths of the Gospel. We must pray that the Lord will plant a hunger in him for God’s Word, then he could encourage the People to search out the Scriptures. It’s not so farfetched, really. We’ve been hearing of a real stirring—jah, a breakout of revival—amongst Plain circles in many areas. So we can pray and know our prayers are more powerful than anything we might do or say.

  It’s gettin’ awful late now. I hear Levi a-snorin’ so loud he’s gonna shake the bed frame loose. That actually happened once. You should’ve seen the look on his face when he woke up with the mattress sliding toward the floor! It was a right funny sight to behold.

  James, Ada, Mary, and Elijah are growin’ like weeds—I can hardly keep them in clothes. I’m not complainin’, but it keeps a body goin’ in circles, trying to keep up with all the sewin’ and whatnot all.

  Before I sign off, I want to leave you with a couple verses from Second Corinthians—chapter two, verses fourteen and fifteen. Here it is: “Now thanks be unto God, which always causeth us to triumph in Christ, and maketh manifest the savour of his knowledge by us in every place. For we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ, in them that are saved, and in them that perish.”

  That part about us being a sweet savour or fragrance to God is so encouraging to me . . . and you, too, ain’t? I’ll be sendin’ you another preachin’ tape from our pastor’s sermon soon.

  Well, I need my sleep for tomorrow’s work. Blessings to you, dear cousin. And just as soon as you can, please send me a tape back. Give your darling girl a big hug from Cousin Esther.

  Rachel turned off the recorder and hid the tape under her pillow. It was a wonderful-gut feeling to know that Esther, too, would prob’ly be listening to a tape tomorrow— the one Rachel had made for her two nights ago.

  As she climbed into bed, she remembered the cutting, cruel thing Mam had said to her—about her special giftings being the reason Rachel was blind. And she wondered what Esther would think if she told her.

  To soothe herself, she thought of the beautiful verse her cousin had quoted on the tape recording. For we are unto God a sweet savour of Christ. . . .

  The words comforted her as she plumped her pillow and lay down. The day had been as trying as any recently, and the Scripture from Esther was just what she needed to think on as she entrusted her sleep, and her dreams, to God.

  Eighteen

  On another day the predawn landscape might have seemed lackluster, but Philip found himself seized by the awakening countryside. He walked west to Gibbons Road, then south to Beechdale, toward an iron-gated entrance to Beechdale Farm, relishing the quietude, the peace of his surroundings. What he wouldn’t give to bottle up the tranquil setting and carry it back with him to New York.

  Standing along the road in the midst of daybreak gold, he considered his life as one might at the conclusion of it. Where had he been heading these twenty-seven years? Would the path he was treading lead him out of his feature writer’s cubicle to a senior staff writer’s office? Was that what he wanted? What of the fading thrill of the chase—the journalistic hunt—the lonely hours and days of writing one assigned article, followed by yet another? How could such a life be Frost’s road “less traveled by” that truly “made all the difference”?

  The sun inched past the horizon, casting lengthy shadows of the fence palings across the road. He longed for a stroll down one of the wagon paths he’d spied earlier, especially one bordered by identical cornfields on either side. Not willing to trespass, he continued walking south on Beechdale Road, toward Highway 340 and the village shops of Bird-in-Hand. No real direction to his journey. No viable reason to be out and roaming this early, except that he had awakened hours before his usual “rise and shine.” Not having had adequate exercise in the past days, he’d slipped out of the house before the slightest indication of life was in evidence, meaning Susanna Zook had not made her presence known at the hour of his departure.

  Stopping again, he propped his foot on the lower rung of a roadside fence, aware of the heavy dew on grass, foliage, and rust-red marigolds. He contemplated the hustle and flurry awaiting him at the magazine upon his return.

  Normally after finishing an assignment he would look ahead, ready to embark on the next. But over the past months his passion had waned to the point that he had mentioned to his mother that he might be considering a career change.

  “At your age?” she’d replied, indicating with a grin that he was much too young to be disillusioned with his work.

  “It’s a mad chase all the time. Maybe it’s just me. . . .”

  “And maybe it’s the city that doesn’t agree with you. Lots of folk don’t handle commotion well. Manhattan might not be your cup of tea, Phil.”

  Mom knew him about as well as anyone. She was right, on several counts. He wasn’t happiest among the glitz and the hubbub of big city life. “What would it be like to have a truck farm somewhere?” he’d blurted.

  His mother’s eyes lit up. “Now that would make your grandpap smile.”

  Shaking his head, he changed the subject to an upcoming European trip. “Pipe dreams.”

  “You must be having one of those days, right?”

  Indeed, he’d confessed to having had a frustrating week in general. Not often he admitted something like that to her. Dad, maybe. Never Mom. Didn’t need to; she always knew.

  A lone horse and buggy came up behind him, the spirited mare stepping out smartly as it pulled a gray boxlike carriage on its tall, oversized wheels, clip-clopping toward the intersection of Beechdale and Route 340. It stopped, then crept out, clattering onto the main highway.

  He’d never contemplated what it would be like to rid
e in an Amish buggy or any carriage, for that matter. The pace was problematic, he decided. Except, of course, if he’d never experienced the power and speed of a car. Yet Abram Beiler had said the Amish liked the inconvenience of horse and buggy travel because it let them “stop and smell the roses” of life, allowed them to feel the pith and the rhythm of their unsophisticated, farm country reality.

  His cell phone rang just then, interrupting the repose. “Phil Bradley here.”

  “Sorry I’m calling so early.” It was Janice.

  “It’s not early here,” he joked. “I’ve been up for two hours.”

  “Everything all right?” Naturally, she would assume something was wrong.

  “I’m out on a ramble across a deserted byway and a wooded bower and—” “Phil, you sound strange. You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m okay if you’re okay.”

  “No, seriously, I need to know when you’re due in tomorrow.”

  “I’ll have to let you know. My flight information’s back at the B&B.”

  “So . . . you really are out on a walk this early.”

  “Ramble.”

  “Whatever.”

  “I wish you could see the sun coming up.” He didn’t think he could do it justice if he tried to describe the sky just now. “This place is nearly as captivating as Vermont, I guess.”

  “You’re way out there, aren’t you?” she remarked with a laugh. “Okay, I’ll wait for your call later. But don’t forget, unless, of course, you’d rather take a cab into the city.”

  “I vote for the welcoming committee. How is Kari doing?”

  “Just waking up. I’ll tell her you said hi.”

  “Yes, do that.”

  “Well, I’d better get busy here. Enjoy your last day in the bush.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to you later, sis.”

  He clicked off the phone and planted himself in the grassy eaves between the road and a potato field, staring through distant black trees as the sun made its glimmering ascent. Never had he witnessed a more awe-inspiring sight than this. Never had he felt so unsettled, glimpsing the panorama of his life.

  Susanna made note of Philip Bradley’s absence at the table. The man was clearly sleeping in, and she wasn’t about to take breakfast up to a lazy man. He’d just have to miss out.

  “After a bit, Dat and I have to make a quick run over to Smoketown,” she informed Rachel. “But we won’t be gone for long, I don’t expect.”

  “Annie and I will be all right here. Take your time, Mam.”

  “I won’t leave you with all the dishes, and I’ll help strip down the beds before we go.”

  “That’s fine, and I’ll wash down all the showers while you’re gone,” Rachel said, gathering up two plates of eggs and bacon—one for herself and one for Annie. She picked up the heavy tray and started to shuffle toward the parlor. “You know where to find us.”

  “Wait . . . let me do that for you.” Susanna intervened, taking the long wooden tray from Rachel, carrying it into the parlor room, where Annie was already drinking a glass of milk, a white ring above her lip. “There you are, girlie. How wouldja like some bacon and eggs with your glass of milk?”

  Annie nodded, pulling her chair up to the sofa table she and Rachel always used for their private meals. “Can I take Copper out for a little walk after breakfast?”

  “Don’t see why not,” Susanna replied, glancing at Rachel. “S’okay with you, Daughter?”

  “If you stay away from the creek, Annie. You know what Dawdi Ben says about that. There’s a couple hornets’ nests down there, remember?”

  “Jah, I remember. I spied ’em one day when Joshua came to visit.”

  Susanna said, “Well, just so you obey your mamma. Copper’s leash is hanging out on the back hook, you know.”

  “Denki, Mammi! I’ll take gut care of your doggie, I will.”

  She set the eggs and bacon and the smaller plates piled high with toast on the table, then removed the tray and headed for the kitchen. “Annie’s gonna have herself a nice morning,” she told Ben as he came through the kitchen on his way outside.

  “A gut day to be outside,” Ben called over his shoulder to her.

  “Jah, a right gut day to be alive,” she whispered, hurrying around to finish up the breakfast for the guests. She hadn’t given Esther Glick’s tape a second thought. Not till just now, and she didn’t rightly know why. Maybe it was Rachel’s somewhat subdued manner in the parlor. Maybe it was nothing, really.

  “Annie, honey,” Rachel began hesitantly, when they were alone, “I wanna tell you what I remember about your father and brother.”

  The parlor was quiet, though she could hear Annie’s soft breathing. “Dawdi Ben and Mammi Susanna already said how they died. Car hit ’em . . . ’cause the horse got spooked.”

  “I didn’t wanna talk about the accident so much as I thought we could share our favorite memories about Dat and Aaron.” She felt a lump in her throat and was afraid she might lose control.

  Annie was silent.

  “You all right, honey?”

  There were sniffles just then. “I don’t remember anything,” said Annie. “I tried plenty of times to think what my brother and Dat looked like, but it’s all fuzzy in my head.”

  Like my eyes, thought Rachel.

  “Well, then, let me tell you about the things I remember. Our wonderful, happy days together . . . all of us.” She told of long walks on summer afternoons, of taking the pony cart and filling it with hay on a sweet September night, and watching the lightning bugs dance up and down all over the meadow. “Dat loved nature, and Aaron, too. We were gonna buy us a big farm in Ohio, near where Esther and Levi live.”

  “We were? I didn’t ever know that.”

  “Your father wanted to have dairy cows just like my brothers Noah and Joseph do.”

  “You mean over at Dawdi Ben’s old place?”

  “That’s right. But we’re here now—you and me—with your grandparents, and God’s takin’ care of us.”

  “And we’re helpin’ lots of tourists have a place to sleep at night, ain’t so, Mamma?”

  “Jah, we are that.” She hoped this little talk with Annie might satisfy her father’s request. “Is there anything you want to ask me?”

  “Why’d you go blind, Mamma?” came the sincere words. “Dawdi Ben says you weren’t even in the buggy when the car hit us, so how’d you get blind?”

  “Oh, honey, I wish I could tell you.”

  “But you don’t remember—that’s what Dawdi says. You can’t remember nothin’ much about that day.”

  “I know one thing,” she was able to say. “I’m ever so thankful that you weren’t hurt too awful bad, that you were safe. God protected you . . . for me.”

  Annie’s little arms slipped around her neck. “Oh, Mamma.”

  Rachel felt Annie’s warm tears on her face. “I’m so sorry, little one . . . so very sorry. I should’ve never brought this up.”

  Annie whimpered against her neck, not saying anything. All the while, Rachel held her precious girl in her arms, rocking her and humming a hymn.

  After Annie had calmed down some, Rachel stood at the kitchen counter with Esther’s tape, preparing to roll out dough for piecrusts, which Mam had prepared before leaving the house. Annie, bound and determined to take Copper for a short walk, had left not but five minutes before. Rachel figured she oughta keep her hands busy awhile; keep her mind busy, too, by listening again to her cousin’s encouraging tape recording while she rolled out the dough.

  The talk with Annie had upset them both, though she hadn’t cried the way her darling girl had. What was she thinking, rehashing those things with one so young? She wouldn’t harbor bitterness toward Dat for prompting such a conversation, no. She’d forgive him for bringing it up in the first place, for pushing her beyond her better judgment.

  He had done a lot of walking in his day, but never so far on an empty stomach. Upon his return to the guesthouse, Phil
ip was glad to find a few sticky buns left on the corner table in the common area. Susanna hadn’t forgotten him, even though she seemed to be distancing herself from him. He stood in the front window, looking out while he devoured the fat, juicy pastry, licking his fingers clean when he was finished.

  Only his rental car remained in the designated parking area, and he assumed he must be the only guest still around. The house seemed devoid of sound, too quiet, as he made his way upstairs to his room. Where was everyone?

  He was surprised to see his room already clean, the bed made and towels freshened. “No time wasted around here,” he muttered, heading for the closet. The postcard lay hidden in Philip’s briefcase, and though he had uncovered only a few links to Gabe and Adele, he found it impossible to dismiss the young Amishman’s urgent message. In his hands he held the final remnant to a long-ago love story, compelling and heartrending. One that he might never fully know. The realization struck him anew.

  Sitting at the desk, he relocated the narrow drawer—the one that had been stuck—where he’d first discovered the postcard. Mentally, he ticked off a summary of the facts: Emma, at the antique shop, had acquired the desk two years ago, followed by the new owner, Susanna Zook. Evidently, the postcard had been placed inside the desk at some point prior to Emma’s discovering the piece at the secondhand store in Reading—before Susanna ever laid eyes on it. Which meant the postcard must have managed to arrive safely in Reading at its intended destination. Then why had Adele discarded such a message? The question burned into his brain.