The Shunning

by Beverly Lewis

  But what had Rachel just said about Katie—that she got herself ferhoodled sometimes? “My daughter does no such a thing,” Rebecca spoke up.

  “But she does, and you know it,” Mattie retorted.

  Rebecca’s eyes shot blazing darts across the quilt frame. “I’d be obliged if you’d not speak about my Katie that way.”

  A familiar look of disgust, accompanied by a snort, was Mattie’s answer. The rift between the two women remained strong. Twenty-two years strong.

  Rebecca was certain she knew what her cousin was thinking. Mattie figured she’d been deliberately snubbed on the day of Katie’s birth. Instead of calling for the local midwife, Rebecca had gone to Lancaster General to have her premature baby. She’d let an English doctor catch her baby.

  “Well, Katie and I’ll be sisters-in-law very soon,” Mattie managed to say. “I couldn’t be saying nothing but gut things about her.”

  But in Rebecca’s heart, she knew better. Here sat the very woman who’d made a big fuss over the plans for Daniel Fisher’s graveside service, them having no body to bury and all. Even with Katie crying and pleading, Mattie and her husband, David, had gone to the Fishers and persuaded them to contact the bishop.

  “Burying an empty coffin just ain’t never done,” David Beiler had insisted.

  So Katie had visited the Fishers herself, begging them at least to have a simple burial service for their son—a quiet gathering of some kind, perhaps a prayer and a spoken hymn. And a wooden grave marker.

  Sooner or later, Rebecca knew she’d have to forgive her cousin for the added grief Mattie had caused Katie. But not now. She pursed her lips and kept her eyes on her work—sewing her tiny running stitches into the wedding quilt.

  It was a good thing Mary Stoltzfus spoke up about that time, asking Rebecca for a story . . . and the Telling began.

  The women were soon responding with their usual lighthearted laughter. Everyone but Mattie.

  And sensing hostility brewing, Rebecca was cautious today, avoiding any mention of her boys’ childhood escapades . . . or of Katie’s homecoming. It wouldn’t be wise. Not wise at all. Not with Mattie Beiler acting up the way she was.

  ————

  Katie was grateful. Neither the deacon nor Preacher Yoder were waiting in the kitchen for her when she arrived from the Dawdi Haus.

  Quickly, she made hot coffee and warmed up a fat, juicy jelly roll each for Dat and her brothers. But the minute he and the boys left for the farm sale, Katie headed for the barn. With her heart hammering and long skirt flying, she made her way through the barn and up the ladder to the hayloft.

  The day was not as sharply cold as it had been for the past few weeks. Not a single cloud in sight and a powerful-good sun shining through the rafters. The perfect time to pull the guitar out of hiding. She found it under the old hay, back in the west corner near one of the hay bins.

  Lovingly, she brushed the fine gray dust off the case with her wool shawl. She opened the case, lifted out the instrument, and cradled it under her right arm. Without hesitation, she found the frets and began to tune. Might be the last time for a long time—or maybe forever.

  She sang several of Dan’s songs first, then her own. She saved for last the love song they’d written together, knowing that it wouldn’t matter really how many times she sinned by singing them between now and the confession she must give. Feeling the old rebellion rise up, she willfully disobeyed and played it again. And again.

  While she played, she remembered. . . .

  The sun glinted off the back of Daniel’s sleek horse as the steed, groomed to perfection, pulled the brand-new open buggy down the road toward Weaver’s Creek. His arm brushed against Katie’s, sending tingling sensations up her spine. When he took the curve too fast, she leaned hard against him, making him chuckle. Then he put his left arm around her, holding the reins with his right hand and keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

  “No matter what happens,” he said, “remember I love you, Katie Lapp.”

  Her heart thrilled to his words, and she listened carefully to the echoes in her mind. She’d never felt so cherished, so safe.

  They rode along in silence a bit farther. Then, quite unexpectedly, he reined in his horse and, in broad daylight, turned to look her in the face. She saw the longing in his shining blueberry eyes, the quiver in his lip.

  “You love me, too, don’t you?” he asked gently, holding her hands in both of his.

  Katie glanced around. “Maybe we shouldn’t be—”

  “I want you with me, Katie, always,” he whispered in her ear, and the worries about being seen like this skittered fast away.

  She snuggled against his chest and whispered back, “I’ve loved you since I was a little girl. Didn’t you know?” She felt soft laughter ripple through him as she relaxed in his arms.

  “You’re still a girl.”

  She pulled away and looked him square in the face. “I’m old enough to go to Singing, and don’t you forget!”

  He leaped out of the buggy and ran around to stand on the left side, offering first his hand, then disbanding with chivalry and opening his arms wide to her. Not thinking—nor caring—what would happen if they were seen doing such a thing, Katie hopped down, letting him catch her and hold her.

  He didn’t let her go until he’d cupped her face in his hands and tilted it to meet his gaze. “You’re the most beautiful creature on this wide earth, and I want us to get married tomorrow.”

  Katie sighed, understanding. “I’ll grow up quick,” she promised. “You’ll see.”

  His face inched closer, and wistfully he gazed at her lips. “Oh, Katie, whatever happens . . .”

  She didn’t hear the rest. Dan’s words were lost as he drew her close. His lips touched hers, lightly at first, then pressing ever so sweetly.

  It seemed to her that he was never going to stop kissing her, and she wondered if she shouldn’t be the one to do the stopping, because now her head was spinning and she’d never felt so wobbly in her knees before.

  “Oh my,” she finally said, pulling back and smiling up at him.

  When Dan reached for her again, she purposely turned and looked at the old covered bridge up ahead. Some people called them “kissing bridges,” but that wasn’t why she wanted to go there. She needed some air—a bit of distance between herself and Dan. “Maybe a walk would do us good,” she suggested.

  “Jah, let’s walk.” He tied the horse to an old tree stump and held out his hand to her. “Did I offend you just now?” he asked as they made their way down the old dirt lane.

  “No . . . no,” she said softly.

  At the old bridge, they turned away from the road and headed down the banks of Weaver’s Creek. “Hold on now,” he said. “I won’t let you fall.”

  “I know you won’t.” She smiled, eager to trust this boy with the disturbing good looks, who stood out in the Amish community for his bright spirit.

  “I’ve never been lip-kissed before,” Katie admitted as they stepped barefoot across the creek, one stone at a time, finally reaching the huge boulder in the middle of the rushing water.

  “Maybe it’s time I caught you up . . . on kissing, that is.” Daniel grinned.

  “You been kissing for a while?” She had to know, even though she wondered if it was right to be asking.

  “Not really, not like . . . back there.”

  “A peck then?”

  “The smallest peck . . . and on the cheek.”

  Again, she listened to his words, studying his face. Mary Stoltzfus had always said that if you watched a fella’s face when he talked, you could see if he was telling the truth.

  So what did he mean—“a peck on the cheek”? Who, but his mother or sisters, would he kiss that way?

  “You have to tell me who you kissed,” Katie said, surprised at her own bold curiosity.

  “I have to?” His eyes twinkled. “Well, ain’t you the bossy one!”

  She didn’t mind the name-calling. Not
with Daniel doing it. He could call her most anything he pleased, if he only told her the truth about whoever it was he’d pecked on the cheek.

  She sat there with her long green dress draped over her knees, hugging her legs as she balanced herself on the boulder next to him. “I’m waiting. . . .”

  To that, he burst out laughing. “It was a little baby. I was two years old and she . . . well, you were just this big.” He measured the space with his hands.

  “Me? You kissed me when I was a baby?”

  “Jah, when Mamma went to visit ya for the first time. Your Mam’s Mennonite cousin came, too. She brought flowers in a vase, from her garden.”

  Katie threw back her head, a ripple of laughter startling a bird on a branch overhanging the creek. “People don’t remember things like that so long ago. How could you?”

  “Maybe it’s because Mamma talked about it so much. It was a big day—your coming into the world, Katie. Your Mam was happy beyond words, finally getting her first daughter.” He paused, then took up again. “Might be I just think I remember that day—hearing about it so many times and all.” He tossed a stick into the creek, and they watched it float downstream and disappear under the bridge.

  Dan slipped his arm around her waist, and the two of them sat quietly, lost in their own world. “Just tiny . . . brand-new, you were,” he whispered. “So pretty—even back then.”

  She turned to look at him, resplendent in the glow of the sun’s reflection, slanting off the creek.

  “Your Mam had just come home from the hospital, and there you were—all pink and pretty.” A chuckle broke through. “Guess I just couldn’t help myself.”

  “The hospital?” Katie was puzzled. “Did you say the hospital?”

  “Jah.”

  “But I thought everyone around here had the midwife—Mamma’s first cousin, Mattie.”

  Dan shrugged. “Sometimes when there’s a problem, even the Amish use the English doctors.”

  “Oh.” Katie pondered the thought. She’d never heard that explanation. She would be speaking to her mother about it later. But for now, it seemed Dan had other things on his mind, starting with the song he wanted to write. He pulled a sheet of staff paper out of his pocket.

  “What’s that?”

  He pointed out the lines and spaces, and within twenty minutes or so, they’d written their love song. It seemed that even the birds joined in on the chorus, and the gurgling brook carried the melody all the way to the bridge . . . and beyond.

  Katie couldn’t recall now how many times they had sung the song that afternoon. But each time, Dan would gaze deep into her eyes and pledge his love—it was that kind of song.

  She now remembered one thing, though, although the notion hadn’t once crossed her mind that enchanted afternoon five years ago. She remembered his words. His strangely prophetic words. No matter what happens . . .

  He’d said it at least twice that joyous day, the day he’d declared his love. What did it mean?

  There’d been no apprehension in his face, no hint that he sensed what was coming. Yet, thinking back, Katie wondered. Had he known somehow that he would die . . . exactly one week later?

  Some folks seemed to be able to predict such things with a kind of inner knowing. Ella Mae had told her so. She was chock-full of wisdom, that woman. Everyone knew it. Hickory Hollow was populated with Plain folk who’d gone to confide in Ella Mae Zook at one time or another.

  After Dan’s death, Katie, too, had gone to her great-aunt—not to share secrets, but out of desperation. At the time, she’d been surprised to hear such a thing. Yet looking back, it was comforting to know that just possibly her darling Daniel had not been completely startled by his own untimely death.

  Her fingers having grown numb from the strumming and the cold, Katie placed the guitar back in its case. Slowly, she closed the lid. She’d never play again.

  She would marry John Beiler come next Thursday. Hard as it would be, she must.

  Seven

  Supper at John Beiler’s house was served promptly at five-thirty. Katie knew that to be so. The bishop kept to a strict schedule, and his household hummed with the precision of a well-oiled machine.

  The table was set for eleven people. Nancy and her younger sister, Susie, age six, carried the serving bowls to the table and set them in front of their father’s plate.

  When Katie offered to help, Jacob hopped off the bench and stopped her. “This is our doin’s tonight,” he said. And by that, she knew that the children—without the usual assistance from two helpful aunts—had fried up the chicken dinner, complete with homemade bread and jam, macaroni, green beans, corn, chow-chow, applesauce, and banana nut bread.

  “Find anything useful up at Noah’s sale today?” John asked Samuel after the silent prayer.

  “Oh, not much, really. Nothing we needed.”

  “We saw some nice-looking hickory rockers, matchin’ ones,” Hickory John spoke up. “But we figured we wouldn’t be needing ’em anytime soon.” He cast Katie a sidelong glance through long lashes framing clear blue eyes.

  Wondering if he were thinking of future Beiler babies, she felt her cheeks grow warm. His mamma’s rockers would have to do when that time came, she thought, half wishing she were bringing her own furnishings— along with her hope chest linens—to this house. Then she felt guilty for her ingratitude. Wasn’t it enough that someone wanted to marry her?

  Surely that was what Mam was thinking this very minute over there at the opposite end of the supper table—that Katie shouldn’t be fussing about not bringing her own dowry to this marriage. That she shouldn’t be fussing about anything at all. She sighed and took another bite of the delicious banana bread.

  After the meal, Jacob startled her by asking, “Now will ya sing for us?”

  For a breathless moment, Katie felt as if her heart would stop.

  Nancy grinned, egging her on. “Jacob says you have a real nice singin’ voice.”

  The others were waiting for her answer, while Dat glared. “Maybe we could all sing something together,” she managed. “I could lead out on ‘Sweet Hour of Prayer.”’

  Dat frowned and shook his head. “Too fast.”

  She wasn’t surprised to hear that opinion coming from her father. Samuel Lapp preferred the slow tunes in the Ausbund. But Katie hadn’t expected to be setting the pitch and singing the first syllable of each line of those old, old hymns tonight the way the Vorsinger—song leader—did for the congregation at Sunday preaching.

  The atmosphere was taut with tension. Katie prayed silently with unorthodox fervor, Please, Lord, let Jacob keep still about what he heard today. Don’t let Dat mention my sinning over the music. . . . Above all, she was hoping that the others wouldn’t notice her heart hammering wildly beneath the green serge of her dress.

  Bishop John came to her defense. “Oh, I don’t think Katie has to lead out in singing just now.” The slight reprimand in his tone sent Jacob’s small shoulders drooping, but the boy said nothing.

  All five children, including mischievous Levi, age eight, sat straight and still as fence posts on the bench across from Katie—looking a little disappointed.

  Katie thought the matter was at an end when Jacob seemed to take on a burst of fresh enthusiasm. “But, Daed,” he persisted, “couldn’t she just sing the tune I heard her hummin’ today on the road?”

  John’s eyes widened, but before he could respond, Samuel intervened. “No, Jacob, she won’t be singin’ tonight—and that’s that.”

  Katie felt Dat’s hard gaze on her.

  When John shooed his children away from the table as though they were a flock of chickens, Katie welcomed the opportunity to escape and left the table to help with the dishes. She was worried, though. What if Dat brought up the subject of her music with the bishop, her willful sinning?

  So terrified was she that she did her best to eavesdrop on their conversation, much to the dismay of Jacob and Susie, who were trying to engage her in lively dialogue a
s she stood in front of the sink, elbow deep in foamy suds.

  “I can hardly wait for you to come be our Mam,” the little boy was saying.

  “Me too.” Susie’s blue eyes were wide and bright.

  Nancy stood near the sink, ready to dry the first cup. “All of us can hardly wait,” she added in her soft voice.

  Katie gave a wry smile. “Well, you’ll have to be patient with me, jah? I’ve never been a mamma before.”

  Nancy giggled. “We’ll be patient, all right. Just havin’ you here all the time will be wonderful-gut.”

  “And we can even teach ya—’bout being a mamma, I mean,” little Jacob prattled on.

  The poor little things must be lonely, Katie decided. They seem so eager for their father to remarry. Well, no doubt they needed a mother. Someone to share their chatter after the school day. Someone to teach the girls how to can and preserve the bountiful harvests yielded by the land. Someone to be a role model, passing on the traditions of the People.

  Nancy had six or seven more years before she’d come into her “running-around” years—rumschpringe—when Amish teenagers were allowed to see what life was like on the outside. During her Rum-springa, she’d also be meeting Plain boys at Singing every other Sunday night and ultimately having to decide between the world and the church.

  Jacob, on the other hand, had many more years at home to be loved and nurtured and shaped. When Katie looked into those innocent blue eyes and heard his husky little-boy voice, she felt a strong tug. Already there was a soft spot in her heart for this child . . . for all the Beiler children.

  Levi—a rascally glint in his eye—handed the dishes to Nancy without a word. He stared at Katie as she emptied the dishwater and dried off the counter. What thoughts were swirling around in his head? Levi had sat too still, too quiet throughout the entire meal, never once speaking. Now, it seemed as though there was something stirring inside him. Something he was itching to say.