by Nancy Mehl
I raised an eyebrow as I looked at her. Was that some kind of warning? Looking at the elderly Mennonite lady, I quickly dismissed the thought. My own paranoia was getting the best of me.
“Well, it’s lovely,” I said. “You’re very blessed to live in such a nice place.”
She nodded. “I love the people in this town. They are my friends.” She covered her mouth as she yawned. “I am sorry, Emily, but I am rather tired. I know people your age can go all day without wearing out, but I am not so fortunate. Would you mind if we brought our conversation to a close tonight? We can talk again tomorrow.”
“Of course not,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry. I should have realized . . .”
“That I’m an old woman and need my rest?” Esther laughed. “I do not expect you to know ahead of time when I am weary.”
I smiled at her. “Tomorrow I plan to spend some time going through the church records. Can we talk again in the afternoon?”
“That would be fine.”
“Now, let me help you clean up.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But if we can just rinse the dishes, I will wash them in the morning.”
“Nonsense,” I said gently. “Please, Esther. Let me do it. I promise I’ll be careful. I won’t break anything.”
Esther’s eyes widened as she looked at me. “All right, child. If you really want to do that, it would be appreciated.”
“Thank you. You won’t take any payment for putting me up. At least let me help out some.”
She nodded and got to her feet. Together we carried our plates and cups into the kitchen. After getting a glass of water to take to her room, Esther said good night. Her bedroom was on the first floor, not too far from the kitchen. I’d noticed that Janet had spoken rather loudly when in her presence. Obviously, Esther was a little hard of hearing, so I doubted I’d need to be too careful about making noise after she went to bed.
I washed the dishes by hand and put them in the drainer to dry. Although I loved the dishwasher in my small apartment in St. Louis, there was something almost therapeutic about doing things the old-fashioned way. There was a window over the sink that looked out over the backyard. Although it was dark outside, a light on the back of the house illuminated the yard with a soft golden glow. Esther’s house backed up to a row of trees, and to my surprise a deer stepped through the foliage and walked slowly into the small clearing. She stopped several times and looked around. I stood still, afraid to move, afraid she would see me and run. Finally she dipped her head and began to eat, and I realized Esther had put out food for her. I watched, transported back in time to Kingdom. There had been a family of deer that occasionally came into our yard. I put food out whenever I could sneak something out of the house. Carrots, corn, sweet potatoes, apples, regular potatoes, and lettuce. Whatever I could get my hands on when my parents weren’t looking. I loved to watch the deer feed through my bedroom window while I lay in bed at night. Until my father caught me taking food outside. He threatened to kill the deer and eat them if he ever saw them again. I stopped feeding them, and eventually they quit coming. At the time I felt as if I had betrayed them and lost the only friends I’d ever had.
It wasn’t until the deer finished her meal and disappeared back through the trees that I realized tears coursed down my cheeks. I’d promised myself my father would never hurt me again, and it made me angry to allow him and his cruelty back into my mind. I wiped my face with the back of my hand and eventually managed to harness the raw feelings I’d spent years trying to ignore. I finished the dishes while whispering my affirmations until my emotions were back under control.
After I dried everything and put the dishes away, I walked through the quiet house to the front door. I’d noticed some rocking chairs when I’d come in, so I went outside and sat down in one of them. Then I rocked back and forth as I watched the lights turn off in the houses that lined both sides of the street. Suddenly, a clear vision of Jonathon floated in front of me again. The tears I thought I’d conquered earlier once again spilled over and wet my neck. I dabbed at them with my fingers, frustrated with myself for allowing this town to stir up old memories and pain. If I wanted to achieve my goals, I’d have to find a way to defeat the voices that whispered from a dark and distant past. I couldn’t allow them to wrap their tentacles around me again.
I continued rocking while the air around me cooled. The sounds of nature created a symphony that finally brought a strange peace to my troubled mind. I’d forgotten the cacophony of noises that serenaded the nights in Kingdom. But as I listened to the old familiar sounds, instead of the resentment I’d felt earlier, something else filled my thoughts. A longing for something I couldn’t quite explain or understand.
Chapter
Five
I came downstairs the next morning and found Esther had prepared scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes. Since my usual breakfast consisted of yogurt and coffee, I was overwhelmed. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I ate a little bit of everything and then called Pastor Troyer. He told me I could come by the church and go through the records any time that day. After a couple cups of coffee, I said good-bye to Esther and took off for the church. I listened to my affirmations all the way there, but for some reason, they didn’t give me the same sense of peace they usually did.
“This stupid town is doing something to me,” I muttered as I drove down the dirt streets to the church. I’d begun to remember more and more about Kingdom. Things I’d forgotten. Some good memories about kind people. But unfortunately, I also recalled what I’d done. How I’d hurt the town. I was certain no one in Kingdom still had any spark of compassion for me, and I didn’t blame them.
I pulled up in front of the church and parked. If anyone had told me a month ago that I’d be walking into a Conservative Mennonite church, I’d have told them they’d lost their mind. But here I was.
When I entered the church office, Pastor Troyer was talking to a woman. When he saw me, he greeted me, and the woman turned her head to see who was behind her.
“Emily, may I introduce you to my wife, Dorcas?”
The shock of hearing my own mother’s name rendered me temporarily speechless. All I could do was nod at the woman. Dorcas Troyer looked nothing like my mom. She was a slight woman with graying chestnut hair and large brown eyes. For some reason, in that moment, she reminded me of the doe I’d seen in Esther’s yard the night before.
“It is so nice to meet you, Emily,” she said in a light, lyrical voice. “Jacob told me you arrived yesterday.”
Thankfully, I was finally able to speak. “It’s nice to meet you, too,” I said. “I appreciate all the help your husband has extended to me.”
“That is his job”—she patted her husband’s arm—“but I am happy he is a blessing to you. I understand you wish to go through the records we keep of Sanctuary residents?”
“Yes, if it would be all right. I’d like to know when my grandmother’s family first came to live in Sanctuary.”
Dorcas nodded. “A good idea. Actually, her family may have been among our earliest settlers. I believe they came here when we were called New Zion. I hope your search will give you the information you seek.” She stepped toward the door. “I will take you downstairs and show you where the records are kept.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
“Dorcas has taken over the maintenance of our records,” Pastor Troyer said, sending his wife a smile. “And she does a wonderful job.”
“And the work began when the town was founded?”
He nodded. “At first it had more to do with land ownership. Then it became about church membership. Eventually, as others moved here, the goal changed to keeping an account of everyone who has lived in Sanctuary. It was in the early nineteen hundreds when the church began to chronicle all the residents. Since then, we have kept up the custom. Having a history of our small town is helpful—and interesting. You will see notes about births, deaths, families, and even jobs and contributions
to the community. It is a wonderful way to learn more about our town.”
I could see the pastor’s Bible on the desk in front of him, and a notepad next to it. He was probably working on his sermon. Even though I had more questions, I decided to save them for later and let the pastor get back to his work.
“Thank you so much, Pastor Troyer. Again, I appreciate your help.”
He nodded and smiled.
“If you will come with me,” Dorcas said gently, “I will take you to the basement.”
I trailed along behind her as she walked down a long hall and turned the corner. The church was larger on the inside than I’d guessed. We passed several empty classrooms until we ended up at the stairs. As we descended, I realized for the first time that, just like Esther’s house, the church had electricity. I’d heard that many Conservative Mennonite communities had accepted electricity and phones, and some members even drove cars, had electrical appliances, and surfed the Internet. But the one thing that hadn’t changed was the acceptance of television. It was still seen as an instrument of worldliness and discouraged from finding a place in a Mennonite home.
“The records room is here,” Dorcas said, bringing my attention back to the matter at hand.
She opened an old wooden door that creaked in the dark. Then she reached around to the wall inside the room and flicked on the light. Although it helped illuminate our surroundings, it also cast a strange yellow glow over everything. It was a little eerie.
I followed her to a sturdy-looking but ancient desk in the corner of the room. “This is where I work on the town records,” she told me. Just as I was wondering how in the world I was going to see anything in the poorly lit room, she turned on a small desk lamp. Thankfully, it gave off much better light. The top of the desk glowed brightly, but somehow, the small lamp made the room around us seem even darker.
“There aren’t any windows?” I asked.
“They are painted, so no light comes in. I’m sorry. It was done years ago when the room was given a new coat of paint. I would like to see this changed, but we have not found the time to scrape the paint off. I know it makes the room very dark.” She turned and pointed at several old wooden filing cabinets behind us. “The files are here.”
I was surprised by the number of drawers. How many people had lived in this small town over the years?
She pulled open a drawer in the cabinet nearest us. “The files are in date order,” she said. “If your grandmother’s relations were among the founding families, the information will be here. As my husband said, first you will see land records. Over the years, the church has tried to go back over all the old records and correlate them with the population files, but I cannot guarantee that all of the names have been transferred. Your search may take some time.”
I smiled at her. “That’s fine. I’m not in a hurry.”
“I would be happy to stay and help, if you want.”
That was the last thing I wanted. “Thank you so much, but it’s not necessary. As you said, it might take some time.” I reached into my purse and pulled out a notebook and a pen and put them on the desk.
“As you wish.” She turned to go but swung back around before she stepped out of the lamp’s circle of light. “You are welcome to come here any time, but if you would let my husband know when you are here and when you leave, it would be helpful.”
“I will. And thank you again, D-Dorcas.” I had a hard time saying my mother’s name, but the pastor’s wife didn’t seem to notice. She just smiled and slipped into the darkness that encircled me.
When I heard the door close, I slumped down onto the desk chair. One thing after another kept reminding me of my past. Now the pastor’s wife had the same name as my mother? The whole thing was ridiculous.
“I am calm and relaxed in every situation. I can control my thoughts. No one can dominate me. I am in charge of my life. I am a winner. I am successful in everything I do.” My whispers disappeared into the murky surroundings. With a sigh, I got up, went to the nearest filing cabinet, and took out two large record books. They would sit on the desk, so if anyone came in, it would look like I really was trying to find information about my birth family.
I checked my watch to see what time it was. A little after nine. That gave me almost three hours before lunch. I suddenly thought about the call from Tom. I’d meant to call the warden’s office before I came to the church, but I’d been so focused on going through the records, I’d forgotten. The more I’d thought about it, though, the more certain I became that Tom’s concerns were groundless. Why would anyone in the prison care about a robbery that happened so long ago? It was silly. Tom was safe, surrounded by guards and cameras. No one could get to him. He was safer in that prison than anywhere else he could be.
However, I’d made a promise, so I pulled out my phone. It would only take a few minutes to call the prison. I just hoped they wouldn’t think I was nuts. I pulled up the number Tom had called me from the night before and tried to return the call, but it wouldn’t connect. It was probably because I was in the basement. I just couldn’t get a good signal, so I put the phone back in my purse. Tom would have to wait until I left for lunch.
I pulled a small flashlight that I kept for emergencies out of my purse. Then I began to search through the cabinets, looking for records kept after 2008. Eventually I found a book with a label on the front that indicated it was from 2008 to 2009. Glancing toward the door first, I pulled out the book and carried it over to the table. As I opened it, I considered what I would tell Dorcas or Pastor Troyer if they came to check on me. How would I explain why I was looking at this particular volume? In the end, all I could do was hope they didn’t show up.
I scoured the entries recorded after May of 2008, the month the robbery occurred. There weren’t any new residents added in May. Only one in June, and it was a woman. July had three new residents. Two of them were a married couple. The other was a single man. I wrote down his name and went to the next month. This time I found two single men. I slowly worked my way through to the end of the book and ended up with only one more single man. When I checked my watch and realized it was almost noon, I decided to switch over to the older books and research the Bylers. I needed to have something to show for my time should anyone ask.
I ignored the land information since I cared more about the names of the first citizens. As I scanned the first book, I was surprised by how interested I became. As Dorcas had said, the town was called New Zion back then, and the names were German and Dutch. It occurred to me that the Byler family might have come here under a different last name. If that were true, it could take some time for me to find the information I needed. But thankfully, I found a Joseph Byler and his wife, Elizabeth. The records were divided by arrival, addresses, births, and then deaths. Joseph and Elizabeth’s address was on a county road, so I assumed they were farmers. They had five children: Jeremiah, Isaac, Sarah, Rachel, and Mary. As I followed their story, I found out that Mary died when she was three years old. I kept going down the list until I saw that Jeremiah married in 1898. His wife was Katherine. Sarah married a man named William Hoffman in 1900. A year later, they welcomed a daughter named Margaret.
I wrote down all these details and kept looking, not finding any more entries for the family until 1910, when Isaac married and moved away. I stuck a piece of notebook paper between the pages where I’d stopped and put all the books away. Then I turned off the lights and left the room. When I stopped by Pastor Troyer’s office, the door was closed. I knocked lightly, but there was no answer, so I wrote him a quick note and slid it under the door.
As I walked out into a mild, springlike afternoon, I should have felt relieved to be free from the dark, dank basement. But the truth was, I’d enjoyed looking through the books and reading about the people who had started this town so long ago. I got in my car and drove toward downtown Sanctuary. I’d seen two restaurants on my way through town yesterday and wanted to check them out. There was no better way to get t
o know people than to spend time in their local cafés.
As I drove down Main Street, I looked at the small businesses that lined the road. One large building housed a school, a library, and a post office. I hadn’t expected the post office and realized I could mail the bills I’d accidentally stuck in my purse. I’d thought about sending them out from Esther’s, but I was afraid she might see the envelopes and wonder about the return address. Even though I’d only used my initials, the fact that they didn’t match up with Emily McClure would seem suspicious.
I pulled up in front of the post office and went inside. My plan was to drop my envelopes into a mail box, but as I headed toward the large metal container in the corner, an elderly woman waiting in line at the counter caught my attention.
“Mail’s already been picked up for the day,” she said. “If you want it to go out now, you gotta give it to the postmaster.”
I thought about dumping it in anyway, but handing it to a real person seemed safer. I took my place in line behind the helpful woman. There was only one other person in line ahead of us. I caught sight of the man handling the counter and had to choke back a laugh. If I were casting a television show set in a small town, I’d have picked him to be the postmaster. Short, balding, and timid-looking, he wore round, wire-rimmed glasses, a long-sleeved white shirt, and sported a red bow tie and matching suspenders. I watched as he processed two packages for the man and sold stamps to the woman in front of me. The clerk seemed personable and friendly, and people appeared to like him.