Sadie beamed, her high cheeks suddenly tinged with pale pink. “I got my start in church services, of course. But I’ve learned a lot in the last few years. Frank has taken me to places in the city. Have you ever heard of open mike night? And something like Okey-dokey …”
Remy nodded. “You’ve done karaoke?”
“Oops! I keep forgetting what they call it. But yes. I’ve done it a few times. Frank and his friends say I’m very good at it.” She pulled a plate from the rinse basin and handed it to Remy, looking over her shoulder. “I don’t know if they’re just being kind, but the truth of it is that I enjoy it so. To sing songs from the heart, it just feels like a real and true expression of God’s love.”
“It sounds like you have a gift. A real talent.” Remy ran the towel around the rim and handed the plate to Ruthie.
“Well …” Sadie let out a gust of a breath. “That kind of singing is not the Amish way. I’m allowed to try some new things, being on my rumspringa and all, but it’s not something I’d ever be allowed to pursue. Not really.”
Remy understood her disappointment; it seemed a shame to see such talent wasted.
“And please …” Sadie turned to make eye contact with her sisters. “Don’t tell Adam about Philadelphia or the clubs or any of it. Do you hear me?”
Ruthie sucked her lips in, nodding, as the twins agreed.
“Adam forgets what he did during his own rumspringa.” Sadie scrubbed viciously at a spot on the baking sheet. “And now he’s acting like my father. Which is not a good thing.”
“I know how that is.” Remy felt the need to defend Adam, sensing that he had the best of intentions.
Right now he was out in the back fields, helping his brothers rig a temporary fix on the fence. As Sadie spouted a list of complaints against her brother, Remy glanced out the window over the sink and wondered if Adam would be back before she left. Sitting at his right hand during breakfast, she had felt a strong sense of grace and belonging. Maybe she was mistaking attraction for the love at the family table, the sweet energy that swirled amid the banter and thoughtful conversation.
Maybe … but she didn’t think so. Something kept tugging her to Adam’s side, a real force, like that magnetic pull that kids studied in science class.
“I hate the way he tries to control my life,” Sadie said bluntly, drawing Remy back to the moment.
The other girls moved silently, though their round eyes suggested their alarm over Sadie’s outburst.
“Sometimes men confuse control with love,” Remy said. “My father tries to reel me in when he pretends to care. He either tries to tell me what to do, or else he acts like I don’t belong in his family. He can drive me nuts. He made me go to dinner with some business partner’s son. A date. He’s trying to use me to grease the pan.”
From the squinty eyes of Leah, Susie, and Ruth, she could see that she’d lost them.
“But he’s your dat, Remy.” Standing on the bench so that she could reach into the cabinet, Ruthie was at eye level with Remy. “You must respect his wishes. Your dat wants what is best for you.”
“Oh, Ruthie …” Remy wanted to think that was true. But how could she explain to this girl who had lost her father that dads did not always do right by their daughters?
Looking away for a moment, Remy pretended to concentrate on the mug she was drying. “That sounds like very good advice,” Remy said. “I’m going to file it away and remember it in the future.”
“Trust me.” Ruthie accepted the mug, her gaze steady with the wisdom of youth. “Dats are one thing I know all about.”
“This is much easier than trying to milk a cow.” Remy scraped the shovel along the ground and dropped the clods of manure into the large bucket. “Smellier, but easier. Is that it? I’m doing it right?”
“Perfect. Are you sure you haven’t done this before?” Sadie teased. “Because it looks like you have a real talent.”
“Very funny.” Remy recognized her own words from an hour ago in the kitchen. “Actually, I come from a long line of muckrakers.”
Sadie paused, leaning on the handle of her shovel. “Tell me, what does that mean?”
“Never mind. The point is, I bow to your superior milking skills. And I now have a new respect for milk.” She took a breath, a halting breath. “Do you ever get used to this smell?”
“What smell?”
Remy shot a look at Sadie.
“Gotcha.” Sadie’s grin revealed those merry dimples. “Actually, it’s not that bad when you connect the smell to the animals that are part of our farm. The horses that plow our fields and pull our buggies, the cows and chickens that provide milk and eggs.”
“I see what you mean. There are lots of people out there willing to throw money at things just because they’re organic. I wonder what they’d think about this organic odor.”
“Manure cologne. Please, tell me I don’t smell like this all the time.”
“You don’t,” Remy assured her.
“You have no idea how hard it is to hold on to an English boyfriend when you’re Amish.” Sadie sighed. “This has not been an easy year.”
Remy hesitated, seeing a chance to steer the conversation toward the difficult topic of Esther and Levi King. It wasn’t just that Sadie’s memories might help her write a story about the King family. Remy suspected that Sadie would feel better if she had a chance to open up about her parents.
“You’ve gone through a lot this year, Sadie. Losing your parents that way, it’d be tough on anyone.”
“It’s hard, especially when there’s always someone around, whether you like it or not. Lots of cousins and aunts and uncles.”
“It sounds like privacy might be an issue.”
“Sometimes I just want to get away from everyone watching what I do.” Sadie scraped at a tough patch on the ground. “And sometimes I get really annoyed with Adam. I know he’s trying to be the man of the house, but he’s a bit stern sometimes, especially with the little ones. Mammi Nell does her best to cheer us all up, but we all miss Mamm and Dat.” Sadie’s nose was red, and she paused to wipe it with the back of one hand. “It’s like a pain that never goes away. Sometimes it throbs, sometimes it fades to a dull ache, but it never completely goes away.”
Remy stopped working as she searched her mind for something reassuring to say. But since Sadie kept her shovel moving, as if in time to some silent song, Remy just kept working alongside her.
“At first, after they died, I think we all just wanted to prove that we could hold together. That our family ties and our trust in God were strong enough to get us through. At first, we were full of faith. But as time goes on, I think we’re all starting to look back and wonder. What really happened to Mamm and Dat that night, and why would a person do that to two so very good human beings?”
A knot of thick emotion formed in Remy’s throat, but she pushed herself to ask the question that had haunted her since she’d first learned of the senseless murders. “What happened out there that night? I mean, why do you think your parents were killed?”
“I still wonder about that. The bishop has rules—we’re not supposed to talk about it—but sometimes things just slip out. When it first happened, poor Simon took the blame from some. Because he was there, because he couldn’t bear to talk about it, rumors started. People said Simon went crazy, all verhuddelt, but I never believed that.”
“Why would people say such a thing?” Remy asked. “He’s a child. How old was he at the time … seven or eight? And he wasn’t a difficult kid, right?” Remy wanted to ask if the family had a history of mental illness or violent behavior, but she didn’t want to sound too clinical.
“Simon was always a good boy … Mamm’s little angel. I think Dat worried that she babied him, and that was one of the reasons our father took the time to go out that day with Simon, to teach him to shoot a gun. Target practice.”
Remy remembered mention of a gun in the early coverage. A rifle. “Was that how your parents were
killed? Shot by their own rifle?”
“Shot, but by a handgun. The police could tell from the way the bullets looked. Our rifle had been discharged, too, but the thinking was … well, my thinking is that Dat and Simon used the rifle for target practice out in the back fields. Neither Dat nor Mamm would have shot at a person. Ever. It’s not the Amish way.”
“And so the police never found out who did it,” Remy said, thinking out loud. “But people are frustrated because Simon saw it all unfold but couldn’t say what happened. Was he able to give any clues? Even one-word answers?”
Sadie shook her head. “He closed up tight, like an old wooden door swollen shut.”
“He must have been traumatized,” Remy said as her shovel scraped against the ground. Poor Simon had been scared into silence.
“He just started talking to us in the last month or so. I think he’s been communicating with Adam longer than that. But really, I can’t imagine how frightened he must have been. The police found him hiding under Mamm’s legs, under the lap blanket. Mamm had been shot dead sitting in the front seat of the buggy, but Dat had climbed out. They found him near a ditch at the roadside.” Sadie’s voice cracked with emotion. “The police said they might have been there for an hour or more. They were over on Juniper Lane, and it’s not a busy road. They were just left there. Like it didn’t matter. As if no one cared …”
“I’m sorry. If you don’t want to talk about it, I—”
“But I do want to talk. The bishop wants us to put it all behind us and Adam is afraid we’ll break his rules. They want us to cover up our emotions, bury our fears like we buried Mamm and Dat in their coffins. But I can’t do that. I want to know who did it.” She pressed a fist to her mouth, as if to stop the pain from flowing. “God help me, I want to know. I want the killer to be found out. I want him stopped.”
“And that’s how most non-Amish feel.” Resting her chin on the tip of the shovel handle, Remy pictured it all.
A buggy parked on the side of the road.
Levi King’s body prone on the frozen ground near one wheel.
Esther King slumped over in her seat, bleeding from the bullet in her chest.
And beneath the blanket at Esther’s feet, a small boy whimpering from the sharp fear slicing through his chest.
EIGHTEEN
imon didn’t think much of it when he heard the girls talking in the stables. He came here every day around this time to groom and turn out Shadow, the piebald mare Dat had bought from the Muellers.
Although Simon helped with all the horses, Shadow was his favorite. Partly because Shadow had been there that night. She had cried out at the sound of the shots, but she didn’t go verhuddelt and take off running. She was a good horse for him.
But even before that night, Simon had known she was a good horse. Dat had told him Shadow would need special attention.
“Did you ever notice how Shadow tries to stay in the stables when all the other horses go out?” Dat had pointed out to Simon. “And when we drive her out, she walks the fence or keeps to herself. Look at her over there. All hunched up and nervous.” Dat had stood, hands in his pockets, talking to Simon as if he were a grown-up.
Simon still remembered the sights and sounds of that day when Dat had talked about the horses. The smell of clover and the mists rising from the dew-covered pastures. Dat had spoken his mind, man to man. Simon would never forget the important things about horses that Dat shared with him. Thinking about it now, Simon was sure God wanted him to take care of Shadow, and that was why He guided Dat to explain these important matters that summer day.
“You got a couple of reasons why a horse might shy away from the others,” Dat had said. He raised one finger. “Maybe it’s being bullied out in the field. That’s possible with Shadow, but I don’t think so. Thunder is our leader, and he doesn’t waste his energy on the shy ones.”
Dat had been right about Thunder. Simon had watched the two horses together, and the herd’s most aggressive horse did not bother with Shadow. So it had to be something else.
“Sometimes horses walk the fence because they miss their bosom buddy,” Dat had said. “But since Shadow was the Muellers’ only horse, that doesn’t seem right. So then we go to the third thing. Shadow never had a chance to learn the signals of the herd. She missed some important lessons and now she’s afraid of the other horses.”
Climbing the stepladder to comb Shadow’s mane, Simon thought of the other possibility, the one Dat didn’t want to mention. “You don’t have to worry about anyone hurting you here, girl,” Simon whispered as he ran the comb through the soft, dark threads. “Don’t be scared.”
He told her that every day, and every day she went to the fence, avoiding the group of horses out in the pastures. If Dat were here, he would know what to do. But maybe Shadow was just meant to be on her own.
“Creating a happy herd is not an easy task,” Dat used to say. “You need space, food, and the Lord’s blessing. And that goes for horses as well as people.” That last part had brought a twinkle to his eyes.
“How did he know so much?” Simon asked the horse as he peered up into her black eyes. He reached up with a damp sponge to wipe one of Shadow’s eyes. When Simon was just five, Dat had taught him the basics of grooming a horse, a lesson Simon used every day of his life. Dat knew so many things; if Simon lived to be a hundred he didn’t think he could fill his mind with that much knowledge.
“There you go.” Simon put the sponge down and looked up at the mare. “You look wonderful good today. Now. Are you ready to go make friends with the other horses?” When Shadow didn’t answer, Simon opened the door to her stall and shrugged. “I didn’t think so, but you have to try.”
He hopped to the ground and looked over her fine spotted coat. Sometimes he saw objects in the white spots that curled in jagged shapes against the chestnut brown. The white marking that reached down from her withers was sometimes a ladle, sometimes a letter b. And the crescent on her rear end, that was always a sliver of moon.
If it were up to Simon, he would have named her Moonshadow.
As he led the mare through the stables, the voice of the Englisher girl carried through the cool air. Remy’s words were so round, like a rubber ball in the schoolyard. And always speaking English. He wondered if she spoke a different language when she went home to her family.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but clear words crackled in the air. He heard them say “police” and “Mamm and Dat” and “Juniper Lane.” Hearing those words made him feel sick inside. He moved the horse faster, wanting to escape the bad feeling and the dark barn.
“Come on, Shadow.”
Once the mare was turned out, he turned toward the house. Mary would give him some chores to prepare for the visitors. That would take away the sick feeling.
But as he passed the barn door, he felt the pull of curiosity. Why were Sadie and the Englisher girl talking about that awful night?
Two steps more, and he was in the barn, facing the two girls who were both leaning on their shovels, looking sad.
“I heard you talking,” he said, “about the unspeakable.”
“So. You caught us.” Sadie cocked her head to one side. “I know we’re not to speak of it, but I confess, I think of it every day.”
Simon tipped his head down. He hadn’t expected such honesty from his sister.
Sadie rested her shovel against a rail. “Do you ever think about that terrible night? About what happened?”
He didn’t want to answer, but a word slipped out. “Ya.”
That was easier than he’d expected. “Sometimes I see it in my head,” he admitted. “I hear the shots.” His mouth puckered, confusion pulsing through his body. There … he’d said it. Was that a sin?
“Does it still scare you to think about it?” Remy asked.
He nodded. “Especially the bear. He was so very big and furry.”
“You saw a bear?” Remy’s brows went up, and he noticed her eyes were a soft green.
Like the moss that grew on the side of trees. He wondered if those green eyes had ever seen a real bear.
“ ’Twas a bear, all right,” he said.
“Some people think the bear is all made-up. That you got mixed up about what happened. That you thought you saw a bear.” Sadie sank down onto a bale of hay so that her face was level with his. “They think it’s not real.”
“He’s real, all right. And I’m not the one that’s verhuddelt. It was that bear who killed Mamm and Dat. He’s the crazy one. Growling at our dat. And Mamm wasn’t afraid to talk to him. She spoke firm and gentle, like when she gives us chores.…” He had to stop talking because his lower lip was quivering. He wiped his nose with one fist, and a sob bubbled out.
“Ach, Simon …” Sadie folded him in her arms and pulled him against her.
For a moment he stiffened.
Mamm had pulled him close that night.
“Get down!” she whispered, pushing him to the floor.
Her legs clamped over his back, and she spread the blanket over his feet and head.
“Now stay put, liewi.” Her voice held the gentle warning of a gray sky swollen with a coming storm.
Simon curled around the blanket that insulated the warming brick and clung to its lingering heat. The blanket blocked out the night, darkness muffled by darkness. It would have been cozy if not for the fear that swirled around them.
“You must stop,” Mamm ordered the bear. Her voice was thick with authority, as if ordering one of the children to sweep the porch or fetch something from the pantry.
“It will be all right, if you stop. Let me go to him,” she said. “Put that down. Please, put the gun away and let me—”
Simon jerked as the shots rang out.
Above him, her body shifted. More weight on his shoulders and back, but not too heavy. Comforting weight. He could hold her up, his mamm.
But then the awful sound started … a whistling breath, like a dry leaf rolling in the wind. A dead, dry leaf …
“Simon?” Sadie gasped, holding him by the shoulders.
A Simple Winter: A Seasons of Lancaster Novel Page 14