The Shunning

by Beverly Lewis

  Ella Mae stifled a chuckle. “At least ten or more.”

  The woman sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t give you the last name.” Her shoulders sagged, and it was then that Ella Mae noticed something much heavier than disappointment weighing her down. The woman seemed downright desperate.

  Tugging at her fur coat, the red-haired woman shivered. “Would there be a young woman in your community—about twenty-two years old—whose mother’s name is Rebecca?”

  Without much thought, Ella Mae calculated several daughters of her friends in the church district. “Sorry, but I can’t be much help to ya if I don’t know the last name.”

  “This Rebecca . . . I believe she would be in her mid to late forties. And her husband was somewhat older.”

  “Could be any number of folk, really,” Ella Mae replied, wondering why the Englisher referred to the couple in the past tense.

  The lady straightened a bit and continued to stand there, now leaning on the carriage. She took a deep breath before speaking again. “You’ve been very kind. I do thank you.” She smiled a tiny, weak smile that faded like dew in the morning sun. Still her deep brown eyes twinkled with hope, matching the diamond choker at her throat. But it was the determined set of her jaw that caught Ella Mae off guard, and for the blink of an eyelash, the spiffed-up woman reminded her of someone.

  Before she turned to leave, the lady reached deep into the pocket of her coat and pulled out a sealed envelope. “This may seem a bit presumptuous, but it would mean so very much—more than you could know—if you, or someone else could pass this letter on to some of the Rebeccas in your community—the ones with a twenty-two-year-old daughter. Oh yes, I forgot to tell you . . . the daughter’s birthday is June fifth.”

  June fifth? There was only one woman who fit that description.

  All of a sudden, the Wise Woman knew which Rebecca the fancy lady wanted, and why her face had seemed so startlingly familiar. As sure as she was Ella Mae Zook, she knew.

  The lady handed her the sealed envelope. “With all my heart, I am forever grateful.” And she was gone.

  Mattie returned in time to see the tail end of the black limo pulling out of the parking area. “Some mighty fancy Englishers around today, jah?”

  Ella Mae did not speak.

  Mattie touched her arm. “Are you all right, Mamma?”

  She nodded, then—“Are you going over to help Katie and Rebecca Lapp spruce up the house this mornin’?”

  “Thought I would. How ’bout you? The company’ll do ya good, Mamma.”

  “I’m all wore out, child,” Ella Mae said, her thin voice sounding rough and hoarse again. “I best be gettin’ off my feet and sit a spell.”

  Mattie trotted the horse up the lane toward their gray, wood-frame farmhouse. “I’ll help you into the house, then, if you’re sure you’re not coming.”

  Ella Mae stepped down out of the buggy, holding on to her daughter to steady her footing. With her free hand buried in the folds of her long woolen shawl, she clutched the envelope. The envelope with a fine linen finish and the name Laura Mayfield-Bennett centered on the back.

  ————

  Mary Stoltzfus and her mother, Rachel, made their way down the narrow road toward the Lapps’ house, a large basket of sticky buns fresh from the oven nestled between them on the buggy seat. Even by carriage, time passed quickly this morning—their conversation punctuated with speculation about the Englishers who’d been seen by both Levi Beiler and Ella Mae Zook only an hour earlier.

  Before they knew it, they were turning into the Lapps’ tree-lined lane and pulled up in the side yard, coming to a stop beside a row of identical, boxlike gray buggies. Mary helped her mother down, and they walked across the packed snow toward the farmhouse, waving at Eli Lapp, who’d come over from the chicken house to unhitch their horse and lead him to the barn for hay and water.

  A four-sided birdhouse, accommodating as many as twenty purple martins in springtime, cast its tall shadow over the snowy walkway as the two women hurried up the back steps to the kitchen door.

  At their first knock, Katie opened the door. “Wilkom, Rachel. Wie geht’s, Mary.” She hugged them both and helped Rachel off with her wrap.

  “It’s nice to see ya all smiles again,” Mary whispered in Katie’s ear.

  “The smile’s for hope, nothing more,” Katie said under her breath.

  Mary followed Katie into the bustling kitchen where cousins and friends had come to help the bride-to-be do a thorough housecleaning— a community effort. Everything must be thoroughly spotless for the wedding service next week.

  So it was much later before she was able to have a moment alone with Katie. It was then Katie confided that her father had gone off on an early-morning errand. “And so far, he hasn’t come back.”

  There was no mistaking the look of concern on her friend’s face. “Do you think he’s over at the bishop’s, then?”

  “Ben thinks so.”

  “Oh, Katie, I’m sorry. It scrambles things up so.”

  “Jah.” Katie’s smile was forced, no doubt about it. “Now I’ll have to be confessing to my future husband.” Suddenly her mood shifted. “Come on to the kitchen. Maybe something sweet will take our minds off my problem.”

  She headed for the kitchen with Mary in tow. Together, they sampled the gooey pastries.

  “Here, try one of mine.” Mary reached down and tore a generous portion of sticky bun free from the rest.

  Katie took a bite, finished it off, and licked her fingers. “Du konst voll—you do very well, Mary. You’ll make a gut wife someday.”

  Then, glancing around for possible eavesdroppers, Katie dropped her voice to a whisper. “Will it be Chicken Joe or Jake Yoder?” she teased.

  Mary felt her cheeks heat. “Don’t worry. You’ll be the first to know, most likely.”

  “‘Most likely?”’ Katie slanted her an appraising look. “No, no . . . you have to promise me.”

  “We’ll never be far apart, you and me . . . we’re best friends, remember? Why on earth wouldn’t you be one of the first to know?”

  The look in those bright blue eyes told Katie that Mary would keep her word, as always. Mary could be trusted. It was one of the many reasons she had latched on to the jolly girl with the face of an angel. And a heart of pure gold.

  “Then that’s that.” Noticing some of the women already at work, Katie jumped to her feet. “Can’t let the others do all the chores for my wedding day.”

  The women had set about cleaning the house, beginning with the upstairs bedrooms and working their way down to the main level of the house—washing down walls and scrubbing windows till they sparkled. Every inch of the house would be needed for Katie’s special day, so some touch-up painting was done in several rooms.

  Before the noon meal was served, the men began to arrive, including Dat. It was the first time Katie had seen him all morning, and she was apprehensive. Since the men were served first, she helped with their light lunch—cold cuts, pickles, red beets, and a variety of cheeses—careful to avoid her father’s end of the table. Instead, Mary served him and the others seated nearby.

  Afterward, while the women sat down to their own meal, the husbands set about enclosing the large front porch to allow for more room for the many guests who would be coming for the wedding.

  Bishop John stopped by shortly, bringing with him additional plywood and sheets of plastic, temporarily sealing off the porch. Katie felt his gaze on her, but pretended not to notice and managed to get lost in the crowd of women cleaning up the lunch dishes. Time enough to deal with him later.

  “When will you be confessing?” Mary asked when she and Katie were alone once more upstairs.

  Knees weak, Katie sank down on the edge of her double bed. “Not ’til everyone’s gone,” she said, then frowned. “But maybe John should know ahead of time, so he’ll stay around after the other men leave.”

  “If you want, I’ll tell your father, and he can tell Bishop John you
need to speak to him,” Mary offered, heaving a big sigh. “After that, things’ll be right back on track where they ought to be, honest. You’ll be forgiven and feeling gut again, jah?”

  Katie nodded, unsure of herself. The confessing was to be her first ever.

  Mary’s smile was reassuring. “It’ll all be over before you know it.”

  “Jah,” Katie said, thinking the confessing was really only the beginning. It’ll be over, all right, she agreed silently, then allowed her mind to wander. If only Dan had lived. . . .

  With the thought of Dan Fisher came the realization that she’d gone for nearly twenty-four hours without humming or singing their love tunes. Not a single one.

  Nine

  Katie waited in the kitchen until the last few women had left the house before strolling into the front room as nonchalantly as she could manage.

  “Come,” Bishop John said, extending his hand to her as he stood to his feet. The blue in his dove gray eyes seemed to brighten as she made her way across the room.

  “Dat told you about my songs?” she said in a near whisper, taking a chair across from him.

  John nodded, and they sat facing each other. “It is a redemptive thing you’re about to do, Katie. Unless a person backs up from takin’ that first step away from the fold, the second and third steps will most likely follow. Those first steps can lead a person far, far away from the church. . . .” He paused, gazing at her tenderly. “Come, sister, find your peace where you lost it.”

  He continued on, now into his preaching mode, although it seemed to Katie that he was going about his admonition in a gentle way, in keeping with the Scriptures. “We must crucify our flesh, resist the things of the world. Do you agree to turn your back on songs not found in the Ausbund?”

  “Jah,” Katie responded, doing her best not to cry, not to think of Dan’s love songs.

  “And the guitar . . . will you destroy that instrument of evil?”

  Katie caught her breath. Dat had told John Beiler everything! The request caught her off guard. What could she say? If she argued with the bishop, asking for an alternative to his demand, she raised the possibility of being banned—excommunicated from the church—for to talk back or argue with a church leader was definite grounds.

  John had been chosen by lot, by divine decree. He’d prayed the baptismal prayer over her only a few years before. How dare she dispute with God’s elect?

  She lowered her head, staring at her folded hands. Her voice shook as she spoke. “I will destroy the instrument of evil.”

  John stood and turned his palms toward her. Hesitantly, she placed her small hands in his large callused ones and rose to stand before him.

  “This day, a sister has been restored to the faith,” he declared.

  Mary Stoltzfus was right, as usual. The confessing part was over quickly, made less painful by the obvious anticipation in John’s eyes and the kind expression on his ruddy face. In fact, if Katie hadn’t known better, she might have thought her soon-to-be husband had glossed over the issue of her singing, somewhat playing down the offense. Except for the startling request to destroy the guitar.

  Little Jacob’s words rang in her memory. Daed’s ’sposed to be right . . . God makes bishops that-a-way.

  Katie would have to follow through on her promise. A person just didn’t go around making a vow to the bishop without meaning it. She didn’t know how she would bring herself to it, but the Lord knew, and He would give her the strength when the time came.

  She was greatly relieved, however, when their conversation—John’s and hers—turned from sinning to the wedding. Still, she was wondering if John might mention her father’s state of mind when he’d reported her transgression earlier that morning. But nothing was said.

  With the confessing behind them, they headed for the kitchen, where Rebecca had set out apple pie and slices of cheese on the table.

  “Have you decided who you want for Newesitzers?” John asked, referring to Katie’s wedding attendants, who, as was customary, were not to be dating couples, but single young people.

  Katie nodded. “I asked my brother Benjamin and my friend Mary Stoltzfus. Mary’s already done sewing her dress and cape.”

  John smiled and reached for her hand as they sat down on the long bench at the table. “I asked my youngest brother, Noah, and . . .” He paused, casting a thoughtful glance at Katie. “Ach, I would’ve chosen my oldest daughter, but Nancy is still a bit young, I suppose.”

  Katie agreed. Surely he wouldn’t have seriously considered asking a child to be an attendant. And in the next breath he was telling her that he’d chosen Sarah Beiler, Mattie’s oldest granddaughter, John’s grand-niece.

  “How do you feel about Preacher Yoder being one of the ministers?” she wanted to know.

  “Gut.” John grinned at her, showing his gums like an exuberant young boy. “And I thought I’d ask Preacher Zook from over in SummerHill. He and I go way back to early days in Lancaster.”

  Katie wondered if Preacher Zook might be a relative of John’s deceased wife. But she was silent, practicing the submissive role she had learned from Rebecca through the years.

  It was settled. Two of their favorite preachers in the Lancaster area would preach the sermons right before the wedding ceremony. Other decisions had to be made as well, including the Forgehers—ushers— and the others who would assist at the all-day affair. Waiters, potato cooks, and “roast” cooks had to be chosen, and Hostlers—the boys who took care of the horses. Men to set up the tables and take down the benches were next on Bishop John’s list, followed by a number of women who would launder and iron tablecloths for the enormous dinner crowd of around two hundred guests. The helpers were to be married couples, and occasionally a man would help out in the kitchen on the day of a relative’s wedding—the one and only time such a thing would occur. Katie smiled, thinking of her older brothers Elam or Eli trying to cook up anything in their mother’s kitchen.

  Katie was grateful to John for allowing a large wedding with a feast to follow. Typically, out of respect for the loss of a widower’s first wife, a second wedding was far less elaborate. But John, being the bishop, had waived the usual practice, much to the amazement of the People.

  Before he left, John kissed her on the lips for the first time. She was glad no one was around to witness the kiss, for it was such a private thing and somewhat awkward, as well. Katie knew it might take some getting used to—this lip-kissing with the bishop.

  Katie went upstairs to her room and contemplated the day. Things had turned out the way Mary had predicted, for which Katie was profoundly grateful. She felt more determined now to take on the task of daily crucifying her flesh—putting her wicked ways behind her. Confession was good for the soul, she decided.

  ————

  Long after John’s visit, but before the afternoon milking, Rebecca met up with Samuel in the barn. “I think we oughta go ahead and give Katie the money . . . that money from her birth mother, I mean,” she blurted out when no one else was around, “as a dowry gift.”

  Samuel nodded. “A wonderful-gut idea for Katie and the bishop.”

  “I’ll go and get it out of the bank on Monday, then.” And without further discussion, Rebecca hurried out of the barn, glad that Samuel had agreed. Every wedding detail was settled now. Things had fallen into place nicely. Everything. Right down to Katie’s confessing to the bishop about her music.

  The wedding would be her only daughter’s crowning day. Rebecca had never felt so good about anything in her life. Not since the day she’d gone to the Lancaster hospital and returned home with little Katherine Mayfield.

  Rebecca was so elated that when a horse and buggy stopped in the side yard, bringing Ella Mae Zook, she bounded over to greet her like a young colt. “Wilkom!” she called, then helped the older woman out of the carriage and into the house.

  “Have a cup of coffee with me,” Rebecca said, pulling up the rocking chair close to the cookstove.

&nb
sp; “Ach, I can’t stay long,” the Wise Woman muttered as she sat down. A look of concern deepened the frown lines in her forehead. “Are we alone?”

  “Jah. Samuel is out in the barn. So’s the boys and Katie.”

  Ella Mae sighed deeply and began to speak. “A young English woman stopped by Preacher’s store this mornin’—and started askin’ questions.” She glanced down at her lap. “She gave me this envelope. I believe it’s for you, Rebecca.”

  “For me?”

  “Jah, and I feel it may be best if you was to read it in private.”

  A paralyzing dread numbed her limbs and brought an involuntary gasp from Rebecca. “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “I think . . . I have reason to believe it’s only for your eyes,” the Wise Woman advised. She handed over the envelope.

  Rebecca trembled when she read the name penned in the flowing script—Laura Mayfield-Bennett—grateful that Ella Mae was kind enough not to ask questions.

  “I best be going,” the old woman said. “Mattie’s expectin’ me for supper.”

  Rebecca followed Ella Mae out to the carriage and helped her back inside. “Da Herr sei mit du—the Lord be with you,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “And with you, child.” Ella Mae’s tone—raspy as it was—had never sounded so sweet, so full of compassion, and Rebecca’s eyes welled with tears.

  Before picking up the reins, Ella Mae turned to Rebecca and spoke once more. “Wann du mich mohl brauchst, dan komm ich—When you need me, I will come.”

  Rebecca glanced down at the fine white linen envelope. “I know ya will,” she whispered, shivering against the cold . . . against the unknown. “I know.”

  ————

  Katie finished up her chores in the barn, trying to shake off the nagging thoughts. Her gaze wandered to the hayloft high overhead, where Dan’s guitar lay hidden safely in its case. Forcing her eyes away, she headed toward the milk house, noticing her mamma waving to someone in a departing buggy. Wonder who that could be?