The Shunning

by Beverly Lewis

  My father was like that. Always chiding me about one thing or another growing up. But now . . . now that I was a grown woman, my wicked ways were still very much alive. It seemed I’d never measure up, at least not for Dat. Probably not for God, either.

  A half hour later, my brothers found me sobbing beside the attic trunk, still clutching the little rose-colored gown. And from that moment on, nothing was ever the same for me. Not for a single one of us here in Hickory Hollow.

  One

  November days, being what they were in southeastern Pennsylvania, held an icy grip all their own. The wind, keen and cold, whipped at Rebecca Lapp’s black wool shawl. Her long apron was heavy with logs for the okstove as she headed up the snowy back steps of the stone farmhouse.

  The sprawling house had been built in 1840 by her husband’s ancestor, Joseph Lapp, and his stonemason friend. Now, over a century and a half later, the house was little changed. It stood—stately and tall—untouched by the outside world and its gadgets and gimmickry. Here, things went on as they always had—slow and tranquil— pacing out the days like an Amish Grossmutter, with serenity and grace.

  Some time after, as was Amish custom, an addition called the Grossdawdi Haus—a grandfather house for aging relatives—had been built onto the east side.

  The sky had deepened to purple as the sun prepared to slip down out of the sky, and Rebecca made her way into the warm kitchen to slide the chopped wood into the grate on top of her large black-metal stove. That done, she removed her full-length shawl and hung it over one of the wooden pegs in the utility room, just inside the back door.

  Potatoes, now at a rolling boil, teased the sides of the black kettle as she tested them with a fork—done to perfection. Turning, she noticed the table still unset and craned her neck toward the front room. “Katie, supper!” she called to her daughter.

  Then with the expertise of one who had cooked and baked an array of farm produce for as long as she could remember, Rebecca reached for a potholder and leaned down to inspect the home-cured ham in the oven. “Jah, gut,” she whispered, smiling in approval as she breathed in its sweet aroma.

  Minutes later, as though on cue, Eli, Benjamin, and their father came inside, removed their wide-brimmed, black felt hats, heavy sack coats, and work boots, and headed for the polished black woodstove near the center of the enormous kitchen.

  “Startin’ to sleet out,” Samuel said, rubbing his hands together. He pulled a chair up close to the old range and stuck out his stockinged feet, warming them.

  “We’re in for a cold snap, all right,” Rebecca replied, glancing at the long sawbuck table adorned with a simple green-checkered oilcloth. “Katie-e-e!” she called again.

  When there was still no answer, concern creased Rebecca’s brow. Her worried expression must have baffled Samuel Lapp, for he spoke right up. “Ach, what’s-a-matter? Do ya think daughter’s ill?”

  Rebecca gazed at the gas lamp hanging over the table and wondered what could be keeping Katie. It wasn’t like her to be late.

  From his spot near the warm stove, Samuel began to call, “Katie, supper! Come now, don’t delay!”

  When their daughter did not come bounding down the steps at his summons, he glowered. Rebecca felt her cheeks grow pale.

  Apparently Eli noticed, too. “Mam?”

  She stood there, stock still, as though waiting for an answer to drop from heaven. “Where could Katie be?” she managed at last, gripping the platter of steaming sliced ham with both hands.

  Samuel shrugged, pulling on his bushy beard. “Wasn’t she here in the house?”

  Quickly Rebecca turned, fixing her sons with an inquiring stare. “You boys seen her?”

  “Don’t know that I seen her most the afternoon,” Eli spoke up.

  “Benjamin? When did you see your sister last?”

  He ran his fingers through a shock of thick blond hair. “I don’t—”

  “Well, did you see her or not?” Rebecca demanded, almost immediately regretting the sharp tone she’d taken with her youngest son.

  Samuel went to the sink and turned on the spigot, facing the window as the water rushed over his red, callused hands. “Eli and Benjamin were out shreddin’ cornstalks with me,” he explained over his shoulder. “No need to be pointing fingers just yet.”

  His words stung, but Rebecca clamped her jaw shut. A submissive wife was to fear the Lord and respect her husband, which meant letting Samuel have the last word. She turned slowly, placing the platter of meat on the stovetop.

  Still in his stocking feet, Samuel strode into the living room and called up the steps. “Katie . . . supper!”

  It was at that moment that Benjamin appeared to remember. “Oh, she might still be in the attic. I helped her up there a while back.”

  Rebecca’s heart gave a great leap. The attic?

  “What’s she want up there?” Samuel mumbled, obviously annoyed at the delay, and marched back into the kitchen.

  “To have a look at Mam’s wedding dress, I guess.”

  Rebecca studied her son. “Well, go on up and fetch her down, will you?” she asked, careful not to betray her growing desperation.

  Following Eli, who steadied the oil lantern, Benjamin scrambled up the stairs, his hollow stomach growling as he went.

  “Whatcha think’s wrong?” Eli asked as they came to the landing.

  Benjamin glanced up at his brother on the rung above him. “With Katie?”

  “No.” Eli snorted. “With Mamma.”

  Benjamin had a pretty good notion. “Katie’s gettin’ married next week—Mam’s losin’ her only daughter. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Jah.” It was pretty clear that Eli wasn’t exactly certain what Ben meant. But they both knew one thing for sure: Getting married was a way of life in Hickory Hollow. You found a nice honest girl among the People and got yourself hitched up. Mam ought to be mighty happy about Bishop John; Katie, too—with the widower coming to her rescue, so to speak. At twenty-two, an Amish girl—no matter how headstrong and feisty—wouldn’t be smart to be too picky. His sister had scared more than one boy away on that basis alone.

  Eli continued his climb up the attic ladder but stopped halfway.

  “Keep on going,” Ben muttered, thinking about the tender, juicy ham downstairs. “Time’s a-wastin’.”

  Eli put out his hand, shushing him. “Wait . . . listen.”

  “What is it?” Ben cocked his head.

  “Hear that?”

  Ben strained his ears, staring hard at the attic door above them. “Well, I’ll be . . . sounds like Katie’s cryin’ up there.”

  Without warning, he charged past Eli—crawled right over the top of him and up the ladder—nearly knocking the lantern out of his brother’s hand.

  Downstairs, while Samuel read the public auction notices in Die Botschaft, Rebecca pulled out the drawer nearest the sink and gathered up five sets of utensils—one for each of the Lapp family members who would be present around her table this night.

  Jah, this was a daughter’s chore, but it didn’t much matter who placed the dishes on the old table. Katie had been busy, after all, caught up with wedding plans.

  Of all things, her daughter—ending up with Bishop Beiler and his young brood. The Lord God sure had a way of looking out for His own. And after what happened to Katie’s first love—poor Daniel Fisher, who’d gotten himself drowned in that sailing accident. Yes, Rebecca felt mighty blessed the way things were turning out.

  She sat down, recalling the first time Katie’s pudgy little hands had set this table. The memory was soothing—a vision of days long past.

  Katie’s first table setting had been a surprise of sorts. At only three and a half, the little girl was mighty pleased with herself, knowing she’d be winning her mamma’s approval. Eventually, though, the years would show that when it came down to it, what people thought of her had little to do with what made Katie Lapp tick.

  Rebecca’s sweet reminiscence served to push ba
ck the secret fear, push it deep into the inner sanctuary of her mind. That place where she’d learned to carry it, sequestered from all conscious thought.

  The secret.

  She sighed, trying not to think of the consequences of its discovery.

  Katie . . . in the attic? The thought sent a shiver tingling down her spine. Rebecca rose and touched her kapp, letting her hand trail along the narrow white ties as she went to the back door and stood inside the utility room.

  Lord God of heaven, forgive me. She’d prayed the words silently each and every day for the past twenty-two years, wondering if God had heard. Maybe, observing her dedication and contrite heart, He had forgiven her. But if so, what was God doing now? What was He allowing to happen?

  Rebecca’s gaze swept the wide yard and beyond, toward the barn. Layers of sleet covered the sloping bank of earth that led to the two-story haymow. The ice storm had brought fierce wind, its shrill voice whistling ominously in her ears. She felt it pound against the door like an intruder and was grateful for the reliable woodstove in the center of the kitchen, warming the spacious room.

  Rebecca turned away from the cold window and glanced at the day clock, wishing Katie would hurry and come. Supper was getting cold.

  Upstairs, a blast of arctic air greeted Benjamin as he shoved open the hatchlike attic door. With little effort, he pulled himself up the ladder and into the storage room. There he was met by a strange sight. Draped halfway over a rectangular trunk, his sister sat crumpled in a heap on the cold floor, her head buried in her arms.

  The trunk lid was down now, and Benjamin saw no sign of his Mam’s wedding dress. But there was an unusual-looking piece of fabric— he couldn’t quite make out what—in his sister’s hand. Was it a scrap for a quilt? No, from where he stood, it seemed almost shiny— too fussy for the bed coverings Katie often made with Mary Stoltzfus and their many girl cousins and friends down Hickory Lane.

  Unsure as to what to do, he stood there watching as Katie whimpered within arms’ reach. As far as he could remember, he’d never touched his sister except when they’d played together as youngsters. He wasn’t sure he ought to now. Besides—all bent over that way—she wasn’t looking at him, hadn’t seen him come up. She’d probably jump right out of her skin if he touched her.

  While Benjamin was still wondering what to do, Eli peeked over the opening in the floor, his blue eyes wide. “Psst, Ben,” he whispered. “What’s-a-matter with her?”

  About that time, Katie began to stir. Wiping her tear-streaked face with her long apron, she seemed oblivious for a moment. Then she turned toward them, and in the lantern’s glow, Ben could tell that she was trembling. “Mam’s waitin’ supper,” he said, eyeing her carefully.

  Katie leaned on the trunk, pushing herself to a standing position, and Ben put out a hand to help her. “It’s freezin’ cold up here,” he said. “Why’dja stay so long?”

  Katie ignored his outstretched hand along with his question and adjusted her kapp. Then slowly, she straightened until she stood tall and erect, her jawline rigid. “I’m coming down, so scram, both of you!”

  Ben and Eli did as they were told and scuffled down the ladder— Ben, still thinking about Katie’s tears. He’d heard about women getting all weepy-eyed before a wedding. His oldest brother, Elam, had said something like that just last year, several days before he and his bride tied the knot.

  He scratched his head, puzzled. Tears must mean Katie’ll be missin’ us come next week, he decided. He broke into a grin. Wouldn’t do to let on to Katie what he was thinking, though. The way she was acting, there was no telling what she’d say. Or do.

  Two

  Katie took her time leaving the attic room. She waited until her brothers were out of sight, then reopened the trunk and returned the baby garment to its original spot.

  Downstairs, after washing her face and hands repeatedly, Katie took her usual place at the supper table—to the right of her mother. “Sorry, Dat . . Mamma.” Her face felt flushed, her eyes puffy.

  Of course, she wouldn’t lie. But she had no intention of explaining the real reason for her delay. No one must ever know of her dreadful obsession. Known sin required confession—she knew that. Good for the soul, maybe, but impossible under the circumstances. Confession would mean turning away, never again repeating the transgression. . . .

  The fact that Katie hadn’t looked either of them in the eye troubled Rebecca. Samuel didn’t seem to notice, though. He bowed his head for the silent blessing without the slightest reference to Katie’s tardiness.

  After the “Amen,” Samuel served himself first, then Eli and Benjamin wasted no time digging in to the heaping bowl of buttered potatoes. When the ham platter was passed, everyone took hearty portions. Next came lima beans, and chow-chow—a sweet bean relish—cut creamed corn, and bread with apple butter. A fat slice of raisin spice cake topped off the meal.

  An occasional belch from Eli and Samuel signaled that Rebecca’s efforts had been a success. Aside from that, there was only the scrape of cutlery against plastic plates, the satisfied grunts of the men, the homey sound of a fire crackling in the woodstove.

  From time to time, Rebecca risked a sidelong glance at Katie. The girl hadn’t spoken a word since she sat down. What’s ailin’ her? Rebecca wondered, thoughts churning. But it was the fear gnawing at her stomach that brought on the indigestion.

  Eventually, Samuel leaned back and folded his arms across his chest, his gesture indicating that he was finished eating. At first, Rebecca wasn’t certain he was going to speak. Finally, in measured tones, he asked the question hanging heavy on all their minds. “Did you find your mamma’s weddin’ dress, then?”

  Katie reached for her glass. Slowly, deliberately, she drank from it.

  Silence draped itself like a shawl over the barren gray walls.

  Seconds lagged.

  Rebecca could take it no longer. “Katie, are you ill?” She slipped her arm around her daughter’s trim waist, and Katie stiffened without speaking.

  Samuel was not one to tolerate disrespect, and Rebecca knew what was coming. As sure as a brush fire in a windstorm. “Both your Mam and I have spoken to ya,” he scolded without raising his voice.

  Still no response from the girl with autumn brown eyes and reddish hair, wound tightly into a bun under the solemn white netting. Katie refused to look up until Eli kicked her under the table. A hefty, swift kick to the shinbone.

  “Ach!” She glared across the table at the culprit.

  Eli sneered, “Don’t you have nothin’ to say for yourself?”

  “Eli!” his father cut in. “That’ll do!”

  Rebecca’s grasp tightened on Katie’s waist. Now the fire was sure to come. She braced herself for the heat.

  “I . . . uh, Dat,” Katie began at last, “there’s something I have to say. . . .”

  Rebecca felt the tension draining out of muscles coiled tight as a garden snake. Her daughter—only nine days before her wedding—had averted a near disaster. The kindling of her father’s wrath.

  “There is something I must tell you—both of you,” Katie went on. She looked first at Samuel, then at Rebecca, who had folded her hands as if in prayer. “Ever since I was little, being Plain has been burdensome to me.” She took a deep breath. “More burdensome for me than most, it seems.”

  “Bein’ Amish is who you are through and through.” Her father’s voice was unemotional yet definitive. “Plain is how the Lord God meant you to be. You ought to be ashamed, saying things such as that after bein’ baptized . . . taking the kneeling vow and all.”

  Rebecca clasped her hands tighter in a wordless plea.

  “I best be speaking to Bishop John.” Katie could feel her eyes filling with tears. “I have to speak to him . . . about . . .” She paused, drawing in another thready breath. “About the wedding.”

  “Now, Katie,” her mother intervened. “Just wait a day or two, won’t ya? This’ll pass, you’ll see.”

  Katie stare
d at her mother. “But I’ve sinned against Dat . . . and . . . the church.”

  Samuel’s expression darkened. “Daughter?”

  “It’s the music—all those songs in my head. I can’t make them go away,” she blurted. “I’ve tried, but the music keeps tempting me.” She bit her tongue and kept silent about the other temptings, the never-ending yearning for beautiful things.

  Rebecca patted her hand. “Maybe a talk with Bishop Beiler would do us all some good.”

  “Alone, Mamma. I must see John alone.”

  Samuel’s green shirt and tan suspenders accentuated the red flush creeping up his neck and into his face. “Maybe if you’d destroyed that instrument of evil when I first caught you at it, that guitar wouldn’t be destroyin’ you now.”

  He continued to restrain her with a piercing gaze. “You’ll be confessing this before the next Preaching. If you’re serious about turning away from sin and crucifying the flesh, you’ll find a way.”

  “I’ve tried all these years, Dat. I wish I could shut off the music.” But even as she spoke, a stubborn defiance surged in her, demanding its way. She did not want to stop the music—not her beloved music. Not the precious thing she and Daniel Fisher had so joyously shared.

  Stubbornness gave way to guilt. She had just lied to her own father. One sin had given birth to another, and penance was long overdue. If she ever wanted to see Daniel in the courts of glory, Katie knew what was expected of her. A private confession in front of their elderly deacon and preacher Yoder. Her first ever.

  Samuel adjusted his metal-rim glasses and scrutinized Katie across the table. “I forbade you to play music many years ago, and I forbid you now,” he said. “‘Doth a fountain send forth at the same place sweet water and bitter?”’