by Ruth Price
He had been in the barn, leaving Johanna to doze against the stairs as he fed Ruthie her grain before leaving the horse to run in the field behind the house when Johanna began to bark. Catching glimpse of his visitor, he'd assumed at first she was a tourist who had somehow gotten herself lost, perhaps injured the tires of her Englischer car or had it lose power somehow, and was now in search of a telephone or some other form of assistance.
"Excuse me, ma'am, are you lost?" As he walked closer, he realized from her disheveled appearance, her torn clothes, lack of shoes, and wound on her head that she had fallen into far larger trouble than mere vehicle trouble. She stared at him, her eyes wide, pupils large, and a quiver in her full lips. So he approached her the same way he'd approach a skittish horse after a storm, slowly, palms out, and speaking in low, soothing tones.
Thus he managed to get her into the house, watered and fed. He sat himself on the second couch as she ate, as was proper, feeling strangely proud as she devoured the simple lunch of buttered bread and tomatoes he'd prepared for her. She was pretty, in the Englischer way: her dark brown eyebrows sculpted and her hair a wavy auburn falling to her shoulders. Her trousers fit her far too well, accentuating the shape of her hips in a way that Abram found embarrassing. He was a married man, though Rebekah had passed on. It was hardly proper for him to ogle this poor woman clearly in need of Englischer assistance.
She didn't even know her own name. That seemed fantastic, even for an Englischer, but the hunch of her shoulders fear in her gaze as it flitted towards Abram then towards her hands, as though she expected he might disbelieve her and put her out made him feel only more protective. He wanted to help her, whoever she was, in the way the Lord intended that man love and help his neighbor, no more. He was far too broken for more, especially with an outsider.
When she had finished eating, Abram showed her to the bathtub, noting how the nameless woman's curious gaze flitted over his kitchen as they passed. She needed clothing. If it wasn't that his own clothing would have been falling off of her, not to mention that he hadn't done laundry for close to two weeks and was thus on his last set of clothing himself aside from what he wore for Sunday services, he would not have considered his wife's clothes. He left her to watch the tub, an excuse more than anything, and ventured for the first time in three months into his and Rebekah's shared bedroom.
He stared at the door of the armoire where her clothing still hung, afraid to open it. It was foolish, her clothes were sewn fabric and nothing more. Rebekah would never have hesitated to offer her clothing to a stranger in need. She would have been ashamed at his hesitation. Rebekah had always been so much stronger than him. Stronger in her faith, stronger in her compassion, truly the best of them both.
Please God, give me strength, Abram prayed. There was no change in him from his prayer. His chest was still congested with sorrow, and the room, for all the brightness of sunlight streaming through the twin windows on either side of the bed, still seemed gray, clogged with the fog of dust and memory. With stinging eyes, Abram opened the door.
Rebekah's clothes hung, hand-sewn plain clothing in greens, blues and brown. They were solid colors and none too bright. The armoire had protected them from sun damage, and Rebekah's stitching was strong. (more description of Amish woman-wear) Rebekah had been well known for her sewing skills. Even before she was married to Abram, her older sisters had sought her out to make baby and children's clothes, the durability of her work as well as her ability to make patterns that were both plain yet somehow beautiful in high demand. Rebekah's clothing would suit this lost woman's frame, Abram assumed. He chose one outfit in dark green, which would suit her dark brown eyes. Not that such things mattered before the Almighty.
Closing the armoire quickly, he took the pile of clothing back to the bathroom. His guest would have to make do with her own underthings; no amount of human charity would allow him to offer her Rebekah's without her permission, which she no longer had the ability to give, but at least the rest of her clothing would be clean and modest.
When Abram returned to give her the clothes, she was standing in front of the small mirror in his bathroom that he used for brushing his teeth. She had her thin fingers raised to her cheek. She had conformed to the Englischer standards of grooming. Her brows were shaped and her nails, though chipped, had been manicured in a french style. Her eyes, though large and framed by thick, brown lashes, were set a bit close for true beauty, and her skin lacked the tan of most of the plain women of his community.
"Are you remembering more," Abram asked, clutching his wife's clothes to his chest a bit too tightly.
The Englischer woman shook her head. Her lips were tight, and there was tension about her eyes. "Nothing," she said. "It's like I'm looking at a stranger."
"I'm sorry." Abram handed her the bundle of folded clothing. "Excuse me," he said, backing away once she had taken it.
She thanked him, and listened intently to his instructions about the soap and shampoo, discount brands from the local town store, good enough for him though Rebekah had preferred floral scents, and left her to her business while he went to prepare the buggy and Ruthie for the five mile ride to the Miller's. They would arrive a few hours before dark, enough time to make a phone call and have dinner there while they waited for the police to arrive.
Abram prepared the buggy by rote, his mind engaged with the mystery of who this woman was and what had happened to her. Not that he would have cause to know, truly. Once the damage to her head and heart had healed, she would begin to remember who she was and return to her own world. It was foolish to think differently, that he might somehow hold onto her, a stranger even to herself. He had just finished hitching Ruthie to the buggy when the woman came out. She stood on his deck, barefoot like a true Amish woman except for the halo of hair that hung damp around her face. "Have you any shoes?" she asked, pointing towards her feet. "I wear a size eight. Also, what should I do with this?" in her left hand, she held up the dark green hair covering that Amish women wore to show their respect for God.
For a moment, all Abram could do was stare. This woman looked nothing like Rebekah, aside from the clothes she wore, but that moment, framed in the afternoon sun, as she stood there in Rebekah's clothes, it was for an instant like his wife was back. Abram lowered his gaze and tried to school his expression to some form of propriety. The mix of joy and grief that blew through him like a storm wind had robbed him of his words. He wanted to take her hand, press it to her lips, to court her, except of course that was insane. He had been too long alone, Abram decided. It would be better for him to put an advertisement in the circular, or let his sisters know that he was again ready, discretely, to search for a second wife.
"Shoes," he said. Rebekah's feet had been slightly larger, if he remembered, but with socks they would do. If it had been deeper summer, he'd have just had her go barefoot, as he would have as well for working in the fields, but once the afternoon warmth dulled, the late spring night would be too cold for comfort, especially for her soft, Englischer feet. "Come with me, I'll find you something. And we wear the head covering to show our respect and love of God. An Amish woman would wear her hair in two braids, but you aren't Amish so you should wear it as you like." He hoped she wouldn't decide to wear her hair Amish style. It would be too much, less like she was borrowing his wife's clothes and more like she was becoming something akin to the woman who had inhabited them. "Yes, just keep it loose so it dries," Abram added. "The buggy is ready. You should bring your old clothes, just in case the police need them for--" he waved his hand. "Whatever reason it is they might need them. Stay here, I'll get you shoes."
It was easier this time, entering the bedroom, rummaging through the dresser for socks and beneath for Rebekah's shoes. The socks had been darned by Rebekah's mamm. While Rebekah had talent for sewing, she'd declared herself two left hands with knitting of any kind. When Abram returned, the Englischer woman was sitting on the stairs petting Johanna. The dog had rested her head on the
Englisher woman's lap, Johanna's eyes half closed in contentment as her tongue lolled from her mouth.
"I'd best see her fed before we leave," Abram said. He'd carved a dog entrance in the back door, so she'd be able to enter and leave as she liked, though she generally preferred the barn when he wasn't home. He put out her food while the Englisher woman put on the socks and shoes, drawing the laces tight and wrapping them around her ankles twice before tying them to keep them in place.
"It will take half and hour to reach the Miller's." Abram said as they walked to the buggy. "You may sit inside if you like."
"Where will you be?"
"Guiding Ruthie, up front."
"May I join you?"
"Yes, of course."
Abram offered his hand to help her onto the front of the buggy before climbing himself. When they had both settled, he took the reigns in hand and used them to stir Ruthie towards the road. "Good girl, Ruthie," he said, nickering encouragement towards her.
The Englischer woman laughed. "You have a way with animals."
Abram shrugged, a bit embarrassed at her attention. The buggy seat was narrow, which meant that they had to sit closely, hips touching. She didn't appear to notice the closeness, but of course she wouldn't. Englisher culture allowed for far more casual touching between men and women, rendering such closeness meaningless. Even with her memory lost, her instincts would lead her to think nothing amiss.
They rode past his fields onto the road. It wasn't a main thoroughfare, and while tourists often came to Lancaster to take photos of the Amish and taste their food at Amish style restaurants, this area was a bit too removed for most to venture. Abram was grateful for that. He didn't like the presumption of the Englischers with their cameras, as though his choice of how to live was somehow quaint, worthy of an afternoon of superficial gaping with no thought to the reasons or humanity of the person inside his or her plain clothing. But the fascination with their lifestyle brought the community much needed customers which helped support the elderly and those who needed medical care.
After a few minutes on the road, the Englischer woman asked, "Where are we?"
Abram's face heated, and he was grateful for the partial cover of his beard. She didn't even know her own name, how could she be expected to understand where she was? "In Lancaster. Do you know it?"
"Yes, I've seen commercials," her eyes widened and her voice took on a greater excitement. "I remember the TV. It was a box type, in color, and we had a cable box underneath it. And a hardwood floor with a red rug. It smells like...garlic...yes, someone's cooking, but it's not me." She was silent for another minute and then said, "It's gone. I wish I could remember more."
"It will come back to you, as God wills," Abram said.
As they approached a turn in the road, there was a rumble behind them. Ruthie, a generally placid mare, twitched her ears backwards at the noise. The Englischer woman shifted on the bench, twisting her body towards the sound. Abram nudged Ruthie closer to the side of the road in order to allow the car to pass. At the bend, the road was narrower than Abram would have liked, and the car, one of the Englischer mini-vans, was large and wide.
It was a problem Abram was used to, but as the mini-van whipped around the corner at a much faster pace than the slow plodding of the buggy, his passenger's breath caught. "Was that close?" she asked.
Abram smiled. "I've seen closer. Don't worry, ma'am, Ruthie is a calm horse. Not much rattles her."
"Well, I'm glad of that. And your capable driving."
Abram couldn't help but smile. They passed the rest of the time in pleasant conversation as Abram did his best to give the Englischer woman information about the neighboring farms, land, and those who lived there. He was well behind on the neighborhood gossip, having always counted on Rebekah to fill that gap, but his fragments of knowledge seemed to fascinate her, and the trip passed quickly.
As Abram slowed Ruthie to make the turn into the Miller farm, a number of other buggies were already parked, and a crowd of children ran up to him. Abram recognized three as the Miller's two youngest sons and daughter, and a few of the other faces as neighboring families, but three were unfamiliar, as were two of the buggies and the car. Abram's skin went cold. He'd never liked crowds, and he hadn't dealt with so many people at once since his wife's funeral. Especially not strangers. Abram's grip tightened on the reins as he tried to steady his breathing.
"Is everything okay?" the Englischer woman whispered.
"Fine."
"Abram!" the oldest of the Miller boys, Emmanuel, walked alongside the buggy. He was barefoot in plainclothes like the rest, but there was something about his way of standing with his thumbs in his waistband that lent him an air of dishevelment no matter how well his mamm sewed and ironed his clothes. He added, breathing heavily at the light jog he had to use to keep up with the buggy, "Did you come for the Singing Circle? We're hosting this week."
"That's for young men. I've well passed my rumspringa," Abram said. "We're here to use the telephone, that's all. This Englischer stranger needs to make a phone call.
"Englischer !" Emmanuel raised both straw colored eyebrows. "How is it--"
"Just take me to your Daed of Mamm. This is adult business."
"Right! You can park Ruthie right next to Mr. Price's buggy." Emmanuel pointed to his next youngest brother Isiah. "Tell mamm Mr. Yodel's brought an Englischer woman to use the phone. She's in the kitchen finishing up the baking for the singing circle."
Isaiah nodded and then took off at a dead run, his untucked shirt flapping in the breeze as he ran towards the large farmhouse.
Chapter 3
Michael Maglione believed in getting a little bit extra. He'd only buy a mattress if they threw in the sheets, he never left the bank without an extra pen, and he always took fistfuls of hot mustard with his fried rice, even though he had a drawer of it next to the knives in his kitchen. When Mike took a job, he got it done, but he was always careful to take his cut. So when Carl asked him for a favor, Mike agreed readily. He owed the man, and locking some spoiled rich kid in a Lancaster cabin for a few days was hardly a challenge. Besides, if the girl was cute, he might even get a bit extra.
The first day, Mike and another guy, rail thin and sweaty who only went by D, sat watch in front of the door of Sofia's room. They took turns bringing in her meals. The farmhouse Carl had appropriated was one step from falling in and way too hot. The girl, woman actually and wearing a nice sized diamond on her left hand, got the only working toilet in the place. The rest of them had to go out into the woods and squat like animals hugging a roll of Charmin'. This didn't put Mike in a good mood. Worse was the fact that the Carl had a real stick up his you know what, and wouldn't let them so much as look at the girl in a lustful way.
"Rule one," Carl explained with all the gravitas of a TV lawyer, "You don't damage the goods. Scare is alright, but nothing that leaves DNA, got it?"
So Mike kept his eyes on and hands off, a real challenge considering how the heat had forced Sofia to unbutton her blouse almost to her nipples and roll her pants over her knees. They'd taken her shoes, of course. Hard to run without shoes.
Carl monopolized the TV, which wasn't much of a loss as it was a box from what looked like 1993 that sometimes turned the characters on the screen green and sometimes froze up when the signal stuttered. And because they were running incognito, it was canned beans and peanut butter and jelly. By the end of the first day, Mike was about ready to lose his mind from boredom. There was only so much Sudoku a man could do. D entertained himself with a knapsack full of legal thrillers, which frankly seemed ridiculous considering their occupation.
"Gotta educate yourself, man," D said, when Mike questioned his literary taste.
D took first watch, and Mike the second. He was just getting ready to shake D awake when Carl said, "I've got to go out and get the paper. Make sure she gets her breakfast and uses the toilet. I don't want any complications."
"Yes, sir."
Mike
did as he was told, putting the stocking over his face to protect his identity before stepping in, tray of reheated eggs and beans with two slices of white bread in hand. He allowed his gaze to linger a bit longer than polite over Sofia's soft curves as he handed her the tray. Her eyes and nose were red from crying, and her bed was rumpled only at the edge farthest from the door, where she had clearly slept atop of the blankets, curled in a small ball, her head resting on the pillow. Her hands shook as she took the tray. "Why are you doing this?"
"Money," Mike said.
Unshed tears brightened her large hazel eyes. "But my money is in trust. It can only be used for education until after I graduate college!"
"Not my problem," This was one of the things Mike hated about kidnap jobs. He didn't know why these people insisted on trying to explain their entire life story to him. He didn't care, and if he had, he wouldn't be able to do much. Even supposing her hard luck story somehow softened his heart enough to let her go, that would put him in big trouble with Carl and whoever had employed Carl. Mike liked his knees and thumbs thank you very much.
Mike said, "You'll need to eat that and use the bathroom."
Sofia's lower lip quivered as she twisted her engagement ring around her finger with her opposite hand. "Or is it Daniel?"