by Adina Senft
“So do you have this problem with graven images on a personal level?” Matt asked. “In other words, do you object in principle to being filmed—of being the object of that theoretical family’s attention?”
“Obviously not, since he did our website video,” Dave put in. “I don’t see this as being much of a stretch beyond that.”
Henry could feel a hard sell gathering in the air. “You don’t?” He marshaled his thoughts together so they would get it once and for all. “Well, let me lay it out for you. I am not going to go on TV and say how glad I am that I’ve left the church and my family and friends. That they were abusive and I had to run away in the dead of night, like that girl who quilts.”
“This week’s episode,” Matt said, clearly pleased that Henry had seen it. “It’s trending in the top ten on Twitter. Cool, huh?”
Henry had no idea what Twitter was, and he didn’t care. “I have to live here, among people like Sarah and her boys and my cousins over there, where you see those silos. How can I go on TV and say how glad I am that I don’t worship the way they do, and make myself some kind of celebrity at their expense?”
“I don’t see how you’d do that,” Dave said. “He’s not asking you to bad-mouth your neighbors and family. In fact, you’d bring a whole other side to the conversation. After all, how many exes can coexist peacefully with their old church?”
Matt shook his head. “Coexistence doesn’t make very good TV, I have to tell you. And people are people. But I haven’t mentioned the thing that I should have said right up front. You wouldn’t be doing this for free, Henry. We also offer an appearance fee of fifty thousand dollars.”
Henry gaped at him. “Are you joking?”
“Not at all.” Matt leaned in confidentially. “It’s a nice chunk of money, and I’ll bet it would go a long way around here. You could spruce up the studio, buy some new tools and stuff.”
“Put in electricity,” Dave suggested.
“Maybe even finance a few research trips. Not that money matters more than art, but it’s a consideration.”
This guy was good. Henry had no idea that people were paid to appear on the show. What would Ginny say to this—she who had already put up the cash for flowers and catering and a wedding cake? Sure, she’d told him that people owed her favors, but still. Fifty thousand would buy her a pretty wedding dress, unlike the plain one she had worn for her first marriage, and he’d be able to afford to take her on a real honeymoon. They could go to the Bahamas. Or even Europe.
“What are you thinking, Henry?” Matt asked. “Can you see your way to balancing what people would think with the positive changes the show might make in your life?”
Henry turned away, realizing with a sudden sinking feeling that the young man had somehow seen more than he’d meant him to. Visions of himself and Ginny walking hand in hand through some Art Nouveau palace in Vienna dissolved in light of the view from right here. How could he go on this show and talk about something so personal? How could he look in his cousin Paul’s eyes ever again? And what if the film crew decided it had to go out to Ohio and film the family farm? What would Anna and Lizzie have to say about that in their next letters? Would they mourn him as lost forever and never speak to him again because their bishop would decide this finally warranted die Meinding?
Fifty thousand or not, he couldn’t do this. Ginny was happy with a quiet wedding and a honeymoon in Colorado, and so should he be. He had to send Dave and Matt on their way while still appearing to be a team player. But how?
To give himself a few minutes to figure it out, he said, “I’m going back to the house to put some of this salve on. You’re welcome to walk around the place if you want—just don’t climb any fences. Paul used to keep bulls. I don’t know if he still does, but he leases my land. You’ll want to keep an eye out.”
From the alacrity with which they followed him back through the orchard to the house, it was obvious they were a lot more comfortable with human conflict, not the kind that came from running away from livestock.
In the bathroom, Henry peeled the old Band-Aid strips off and dabbed the salve into the cuts. It smelled good—with a hint of lavender and the orange daisy that grew all over Sarah’s quilt garden. There were petals in the mixture, as though they’d been preserved in amber. With fresh bandage strips applied, he went out into the kitchen to find his guests had pulled up chairs at the table.
The battle wasn’t over, but at least he felt a little more able to cope—as though the scent of the balm had breathed strength into him. “Can I make you some coffee?”
“Not for me,” Dave said. “Trying to cut back. So Henry, Matt and I were talking while you were in the bathroom, and he reminded me of something in your contract that I’d forgotten.”
And…here we go. “What’s that?”
“Well, buried down there on about the fourth page is an assurance from you that you’ll do everything in your power to promote your pieces. It even spells out magazines and television.”
“But not reality show tell-alls.”
“I think one is a subset of the other. And if you signed an agreement for television, I think it’s a tacit agreement to do this show.”
“I disagree. D.W. Frith’s style strikes me more as NPR or National Geographic, not Shunning Amish.”
“You remember what I said about extending our reach,” Dave said. “That means to other demographics we haven’t touched yet. And TNC reaches a huge demographic that cuts across all ages and economic levels. Just the people we’re trying to access for your pieces, Henry.”
“I can’t see your average economic level being able to afford a four-hundred-dollar batter bowl.”
“Maybe not, but the show is watched by everyone from urban professionals to construction workers,” Matt told him. “Money completely aside, Dave and I both agree that this is a one-of-a-kind opportunity to show your work to the world, and if you’re going to abide by the terms of your contract, you should see your way to doing it. We can work with you on the focus. Give you script approval. Whatever you need to come aboard.”
Henry gazed at them, feeling in some part of his mind the tingle of the salve going to work on his hands.
From Sarah’s hands to his. What would she make of this conversation? Would she shut it down with a graceful reference to Amish customs? Because he was coming to realize with a feeling of cold dread that being Amish would be about the only thing that could save him right now.
But he had to try.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t. Thanks for your offer. I appreciate it. I really do. But if the contract didn’t specify this show, then I’m not obliged to make a spectacle of myself and my neighbors to fulfill its terms.”
With a sigh, Dave got to his feet. “You’re not leaving me too many options here, Henry. I’m going to have to go back to New York and take it up with the legal beagles. I’m sorry about that.”
“You go right ahead. I’m fine with television in a general sense, Dave. A news program. An interview by a real reporter. Just not this. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back out to the barn and start glazing those pieces for the Thanksgiving display.”
There was something in Dave’s gaze that made Henry’s nape and shoulders prickle—as though the two of them were picturing that display and seeing two completely different things. But that wasn’t Henry’s business. His business was getting his hands healed up and those pieces finished. It was what he knew how to do, and he’d focus on doing it to the very best of his ability.
He stood in the open barn doors and watched the Jag and the BMW roll cautiously down the gravel lane, like a pair of stylish ladies trying not to hurt their bare feet on the rocks.
It would be all right. No sane lawyer would hold him to such vague contract terms—especially when this had come up after the contract was signed. He had nothing against television in a general sense. But reality TV was a different creature, meant to sensationalize human conflict and emotion and turn
people’s pain into entertainment.
Fifty-thousand-dollar bribe or not, he just didn’t have it in him to do it.
His hands tingled, and he flexed his fingers absentmindedly. Was it supposed to feel like this? Maybe it was a good thing Sarah was expecting him this evening.
After today, her quiet kitchen would feel like a haven of peace.
Chapter 14
Sarah loved the peacefulness of Saturday evenings. In their district, people didn’t visit after supper on a Saturday, so that they could lay aside the busyness of the week and prepare their spirits for the Lord’s Day. Once in a while you’d hear of some of the Youngie taking a drive or getting together to go for a walk, but not often—and Sarah was glad for it. How sad would it be to have prayer time and Scripture reading—something the whole family did together—with some of its members missing?
Her boys were busy every day and some evenings, too, so Sarah hoarded Saturday nights like a miser, hugging them close to her heart and savoring them before she let the minutes fall through her fingers.
Caleb washed the dishes while Simon dried them and Sarah went into the front room to put away the afghan she was crocheting for Amanda’s Christmas present. It was long enough to cover her whole lap and fall over her knees now, which was gut since the evenings were getting colder. She tucked it away into her basket, tidied the cushions on the couch, and then raised her head as the sound of a knock came at the kitchen door.
“I’ve got it, Mamm,” Simon called.
But Sarah already knew who it was. She’d been waiting since four o’clock, the earliest time a person could call evening, and finally, at nearly six, here he was.
“Simon, Caleb,” she heard Henry say. “Good to see you both.”
“And you, Henry.” Simon sounded a little surprised. Sarah hadn’t said anything about Henry coming, in case he changed his mind and waited to complete their business transaction on Monday. If he had come tomorrow, she wouldn’t have been able to take his money…but he wouldn’t have come tomorrow. He might be Englisch now, but a man would have to be far gone in worldliness not to remember that the Amish did not transact business on the Lord’s Day.
“I came to give your mother this,” Henry said.
She walked out into the kitchen in time to see him pull a bill from his wallet. “You didn’t drive all the way into town just to get that for me, I hope,” she said.
“No, I got myself some supper at the Dutch Rest Café while I was at it.” He handed her the bill and she led him into her compiling room, where she kept the books. “I forgot to get groceries this week, so I went over to the Country Market in Whinburg. Luckily they were still open, or I’d have been begging you for a dozen eggs.”
“You’d better not buy eggs when we have so many,” Sarah chided him, making a note in her ledger and tucking the money into her pouch for the bank. “We could supply you with eggs from now on for nothing, simply because you’ve been so good to Caleb.”
“The chickens aren’t laying so well now, Mamm,” Caleb said from the hall behind Henry as he headed for the stairs. “The days are getting shorter and they’re stopping for the winter.”
“That’s true. But if you need some now, we have an extra dozen. You’re welcome to them.”
“Thank you, I will,” Henry said. “Though I came for another reason besides paying for the salve and begging eggs.” He held out his hands and turned them over, palms up. “Is it supposed to tingle like this?”
“I don’t know. As I said, I made it fairly strong, but the book doesn’t mention any such sensation.” She looked up, suddenly stricken. “Oh dear. You don’t suppose you’re allergic to poplar sap, too?”
“I don’t think so. It doesn’t feel painful, just tingly.”
“Maybe it’s the balm doing its good work. May I look?”
As Henry sat at the little table where she’d got into the habit of examining people’s cuts and bruises, Simon stopped in the doorway. “Mamm, are we going to read?”
“Ja, I’ll just have a look at Henry’s hands and be right in. Call Caleb back down before he gets his nose in a library book.”
With a look at Henry but no comment—for which Sarah was grateful—her elder son went upstairs to do as she asked.
She peeled back one of the bandages and had a look. The cut did not look inflamed, nor did the flesh around it. Henry’s hand was warm, but not hot, so that was a good sign, she thought as she pressed the backs of her fingers to it. “I don’t think the balm is doing anything other than what it should,” she finally said. “The skin and the cut are both well.”
“That’s a relief. I wasn’t worried, really, but I don’t want to take chances and risk not being able to work.”
“Do you want me to dilute the salve a little? It could just be that you’re extra sensitive still, from the gloves.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll give it overnight and then see how it feels in the morning.”
“If it’s not looking like it’s healing up, you might need to go to the clinic. Church is all the way over at Jon Hostetler’s tomorrow, so we’ll be leaving earlier than usual and won’t be back until midafternoon.” What was she babbling for? She said it as though she expected him to know Jon Hostetler, when where church was every other Sunday was probably the last thing to enter his mind.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. Thanks for checking, Sarah.”
His hands looked so defenseless, there on the table, when she knew perfectly well the kind of brute labor and skill they were capable of. Now that she looked at him more closely, his face was drawn and his color wasn’t all that good.
“Henry, are you all right?”
He busied himself putting the Band-Aid strip back on, though of course it wouldn’t stick. She got up to get him another one. “Of course. It’s just been a rough day.”
“Those men in the orchard? The ones from that television program?”
He nodded. “They offered me fifty thousand dollars to do the show. Can you believe it?”
“Fifty—” She handed him the box of strips and sat rather abruptly opposite. “Are you serious?”
“That’s what I said, more or less. They were completely serious. And I have a feeling Dave Petersen will be bringing some legal pressure to bear if I don’t do it.”
“What kind of legal pressure?” Sarah didn’t know much about that kind of thing, but she did know that lawsuits, which the church forbade, could throw a man into poverty and take everything he had. Anybody could bring a lawsuit for any reason at all. But for refusing to be on a television show? That would be crazy.
“I don’t know yet. I’m hoping they give it up as a bad job and go bother some other Frith supplier. But still, it’s going to be hard getting to sleep tonight.”
“What does your fiancée say?” Surely he would have talked this over with Ginny. Surely he should be there right now, having dinner with her instead of eating by himself at the Dutch Rest. Had they quarreled?
“She’s out of town. Went back to Philly with her family to find a wedding dress, and I don’t want to spoil her fun with this.”
“Oh.” What kind of dress would a woman wear who had already been married once, and who was no longer plain? She’d seen a few very fancy confections in shop windows, but she couldn’t imagine a woman who loved Henry actually wearing one of them.
But that was none of her business.
“From the discussions we have had about it,” Henry went on, “she’s leaving the decision up to me. I’m the one who has family and friends who could be affected, after all. The worst she might have to deal with is an unflattering view of the Inn in the fall without its roses.”
“How would it affect your family and friends, Henry?” she asked in spite of herself. She shouldn’t show any interest in such a worldly thing—it had nothing to do with her. But she couldn’t bear to see the heaviness in his shoulders, as if he were carrying a burden and couldn’t seem to shrug it off. “What happens on Englisch tele
vision has nothing to do with us.”
“Maybe not. Maybe I’m being arrogant in assuming that anything I do would affect anyone else. But just the thought of there being people out there who would think badly of my family or of you and Paul and Jacob and the other folks around here…I don’t want that. I couldn’t stand it.”
“Does it necessarily have to be negative, this thinking?” If he were forced into doing this, why couldn’t he say good things—uplifting things—about his experience? “Surely there could be some good things you could tell people.”
“Good things don’t make good TV, I’m informed,” he said wryly. Then, at a noise from the door, he turned to see Simon and Caleb both standing there. “Hi, boys. Sorry I’m holding your mother up.”
“Seems like you need a cure for more than your hands,” Caleb said with his usual obliviousness to the finer points of privacy. But he was quite right, in Sarah’s mind. “Are you going to do it, Henry?”
Henry shook his head. “Not unless they force me, and I don’t think that would make very good television, either. Not too much you can do with a man who refuses to say anything, I wouldn’t suppose.”
He got to his feet, and something in the way he stood, as though bracing himself to go back to the quiet of his house, compelled words to fly out of Sarah’s mouth before she had time to think. “Would you like to stay for prayers with us, Henry?”
His brows rose and surprise chased away all the worry lines that had begun to engrave themselves in his face. He wasn’t the only one. Simon’s hand made a convulsive movement, as if to stop something, before he controlled himself and merely said, “Mamm,” in a tone that clearly asked, What are you doing?