Forever Amish (17 page)

CHAPTER 21

When the singing ended, a bearded middle-aged man with a gentle way about him and who was carrying a Bible stepped to the front of the congregation. All eyes pivoted toward him and my feelings of contentment dissipated, as if I'd emerged from a warm bathtub into the chill air of reality. What was I doing here? How long had we been singing? Thirty minutes on the second song alone. I glanced over at Armin and then to Rhoda, to make sure they were still there, anchoring me.

Then I refocused my vision and thoughts as the bearded man—who must have been a minister—read Romans 3:23 aloud in German. I could loosely translate: We all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, but we are justified freely by the Lord's grace. Not what I wanted to hear while I stewed over my father's shortcomings—his blatant lies.

Then a second minister read Leviticus 19:18 in German and in English. “Thou shalt not avenge, nor bear any grudge against the children of thy people, but thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.” I could translate most of his German message—sometimes he broke into Pennsylvania Dutch.

My mind wandered to my father, who must have awoken and had breakfast by now. To arrest my scuttling thoughts, I inspected the men's side of the room again. No sign of Lizzie's beau, Joe, who might have hauled his car out of the ditch by now. I doubted he'd have the impertinence to drive it to the service or show up wearing street clothes anyway.

Finally Bishop Troyer moved to the center and all spines straightened, including Reuben's, who must have nodded off, the way his head jerked. For a minute, the bishop spoke right to Reuben, who squirmed on the hard wooden bench. Bishop Troyer opened the German Bible and read Colossians 3:13. Then he repeated the verse in Pennsylvania Dutch and in English. For my sake, or were there others in this room who couldn't understand German or Pennsylvania Dutch? He admonished everyone to forgive each other for all grievances as the Lord forgives them.

I'd heard the Amish were magnanimous with their determination to forgive. But I assumed repentance was required. I couldn't imagine Reuben coming to the bishop to ask for forgiveness. Fabricating jewelry boxes didn't seem such a horrendous crime. Maybe Reuben had long disobeyed the rules set before him. Or maybe the bishop wanted Reuben to forgive Pops. Good luck on that one.

When I evaluated Reuben's attitude, he had some nerve putting my father down when he was obviously in the hot seat himself. But he was here this morning, listening to the words God had commanded, while Pops rarely attended church.

And how about me? My heart was so filled with indignation; it held not an empty spot for forgiveness. Not for Pops and not for my mother, either. My bio mom, a term I'd heard used for surrogate mothers. If I had a precious little girl, I'd never give her up, for anything—especially if her father were willing to care for her. Or would I? Since when did I become Madam Perfect? I only had my father's side of the story, and like Swiss cheese, it could be riddled with fabrications.

My chest tightened as I tried to recall my early childhood. I must have cried and wailed when Mom left. Did she even say good-bye to me, or did she skulk out the back door while I was napping? I wondered if she'd ever had a change of heart and tried to locate me without success. Questions I'd ask Rhoda and Grandma Leah.

At the end of the service, when we were finally excused—what must have been three hours later—I smelled coffee brewing. The men rearranged sets of three benches side by side and elevated them on some sort of trestle to convert into tables, while the women scattered into the kitchen to prepare a meal. I followed them. A plump lady about Rhoda's age, who I assumed to be the mistress of the house, jabbered gaily in Pennsylvania Dutch, using hand motions to direct the girls and women, and pointing out the stacks of plates, multitude of flatware, and napkins. Platters of sliced ham and cheese, bread, pickles, and dishes of macaroni and vegetable salads, mayonnaise and mustard, sat on the counters.

I peeked back out into the expansive living room and was disappointed to see the men sitting around the tables on benches; they were going to eat first, and I was evidently going to help serve them before I got my chance to dig in. The women set the tables in an orderly fashion. Our hostess handed me and another young woman a coffee urn as three others quickly placed cups and water glasses on the tables. Trailing them, I poured coffee. All very ingenious; I admired their dexterity.

I surveyed the sea of heads and located Reuben, Armin, Jeremy, and Peter. I strolled over to them.

“May I serve you gentlemen coffee?” I asked, and they grinned up at me.

“Don't you look nice.” Jeremy's cheeks blushed.

“Shush,” Reuben said.

“Well, she does.” He held out his cup for me to fill.

Their table was as far away from Bishop Troyer's as it could've been. At the other end of the room, Armin's brother, Nathaniel, and Nathaniel's mother-in-law sat dining with the bishop and his wife. Nathaniel's wife must have been helping in the kitchen.

As I strolled among the tables, several men glanced up at me with what appeared to be a look of confusion, but none refused my offering of coffee. “Ich bedank mich,” one said, which I assumed meant thank you.

Then other women brought out the platters of cold cuts and cheese, salads and sliced bread.

When we women were finished serving, the others chattered, but again I kept my mouth closed for fear of the reaction I'd get at uttering English words. Or was the fact I wasn't Amish as obvious as a tail feather on a fish?

Where was Lizzie? I finally located her with Rhoda in the kitchen slicing bread.

“What did ya think?” Rhoda said as I moved toward her. “Could you understand the sermon? A fine gut message, yah?”

“Yes, it was thought provoking.” I'd avoided seeing Pops all morning and was suddenly inundated with guilt and sadness.

“I'll have to hurry home so I can see our Ezekiel,” Rhoda said. “Sally, you may stay and eat. Armin can give you and Lizzie a ride home.”

“Thank you, Mamm.” Lizzie smooched Rhoda's cheek.

I directed my words to Rhoda. “Lizzie said the man sitting next to Armin during the service is his brother,” I said.

“Yah, Nathaniel King.” Rhoda scanned the crowd as women cleared dirty dishes and then brought the men dessert. “As far as I know, it's the first time the two brothers have sat together in months.”

“We saw Armin at Nathaniel's wedding last December,” Lizzie said. “But not at his daughter-in-law's. I bet Nathaniel was none too pleased.”

“If ever there were a man who'd forgive Armin, it's Nathaniel,” Rhoda said. “Even after all the sadness Armin brought his parents.”

“My father says there are two ways of looking at everything.” I smooshed my lips together; I was quoting Pops again. I couldn't get him out of my head.

“Yah, we have an Amish saying—'tis almost the same,” Lizzie said.

“But in the eyes of God, there is only one way to live one's life.” Rhoda delivered Lizzie a stern look. “Maybe you'd better come home with your dat and me, and I don't want you going to the Singing tonight, have I made myself clear?”

“But, Mamm, please, please don't make me come home so soon.” Lizzie snaked an arm around Rhoda's waist.

Rhoda's mouth grew hard. “If you leave the house without permission tonight, I'll send your father after you.”

It occurred to me that by covering for Lizzie, I'd become a liar, like Pops. Yet, did I have the right to tell Lizzie whom she should marry when my own parents never bothered to make me legitimate? A repulsive thought rippled through me like sludge down a drainpipe. Had Mom really refused to marry Pops or was he lying about that, too?

Rhoda turned to me, her countenance relaxing. “You should go to the Singing with Armin later tonight. It would be good for both of you. He's turning into a hermit.”

“I don't think so.” The old movie and TV program
The Odd Couple
came to mind.

“You'd be doing Armin a favor, getting him out of the house,” Lizzie said. “I should go too. All the girls sit on one side of the long table and the boys on the other. You'd have someone to talk to, Sally.” I suspected she'd arranged a rendezvous with her lover boy. I couldn't see the locket Joe had given her, but it was probably hidden under her violet-colored dress, placed over her heart.

Reuben sauntered over to us. “Hurry up and eat,” he said to Rhoda and Lizzie. “It's started snowing again.”

“But I'm starvin',” Lizzie said, “and I want to talk to my friends and then play volleyball.”

“Dressed like that?” I said. “In the snow?”

“Yah, I can play just fine this away.”

“I suppose if Sally and Armin promise to look after you this afternoon, it might be okay until supper,” Rhoda said. “Then I want you home.”

“The less our Lizzie is around Sally's father the better,” Reuben said. “How about our sons?”

“Peter and Jeremy can find their own way,” Lizzie said. “They won't want to leave yet, either.”

Reuben tugged on his beard. “I'll get the horse hitched up and be back in fifteen minutes for you, Rhodie.”

I didn't want to find myself in the same horrible position as yesterday, but Lizzie was begging me with her eyes to keep quiet. Finally, she said, “Mamm, I'll come home after we eat. Surely, it won't snow as much again, will it?”

“I'll have a quick snack too,” Rhoda said.

“Gut.” Lizzie looped her arm in Rhoda's and said, “You'll see. Everything is just fine. Come on, Sally.”

I lagged behind them, hoping to run in to Armin. But the first man I came face-to-face with was Bishop Troyer. He wore a sober expression, but his eyes were friendly, crinkled at the corners in a way that told me he might be containing a smile under his thick beard.

“You look familiar.” He peered down his nose. “But I can't quite place you.” His hat in hand, he scratched his head. “Unless you drive a red car.”

“Guilty.”

“Of leading one of the flock away?”

“No.” I was tempted to enlighten him on Lizzie's mischief: how she'd lured me here under false pretenses, how she'd nearly eloped last night. But I was not a snitch. The Zook family was already under the bishop's microscope.

“I'm Bishop Troyer,” he said, “and you are?”

“Sally Bingham. I could be Reuben and Rhoda's niece. Or maybe not.” I sounded like an idiot; a woman my age not knowing who her relatives were. In this tight-knit, closed community, everyone knew everyone.

“Are you Ezekiel's daughter? I hear tell he's in town.”

“Yes, he came looking for me.” I saw myself through the bishop's eyes and realized how ridiculous I looked dressed Amish. I'd left my wool bonnet with my coat and wondered how I'd ever find the right one without Rhoda's help.

But before I could continue my explanation, he said, “Are you contemplating joining the church?”

“No, but I wanted to come to the service, and I didn't have the appropriate clothing. I enjoyed the sermons and the singing. Although—no offense meant—three hours was a long time.” I reached up and felt my prayer cap: flattened and sitting at a tilt, allowing strands of hair to spill out.

“Even members who understand every word sometimes nod off.” He chuckled under his breath. “I was once young. I recall how difficult it was to keep awake. Old people get drowsy too.”

“I could understand a little,” I said. “And I know enough of the Bible to recognize the verses the ministers were referring to.”

“I hope you'll ponder the lessons taught.” He couldn't be alluding to my father, could he? I contemplated asking him about Pops and my mother, but after his poignant sermon decided better of it.

“Were those other men ministers?” I found the cap's strings tangled behind my neck.

“Yes, chosen by God. As I was. Every man must agree to serve as a minister or deacon when he is baptized, and possibly bishop, for the remainder of his life.”

I speculated about Reuben, who'd apparently not been nominated to become a minister and was in some kind of trouble. I figured if Lizzie took off, her elopement would be the final nail in Reuben's reputation. I couldn't imagine him standing before the congregation in humility preaching the Lord's Word. But who was I to judge?

I saw Armin meandering through the crowd, headed in our direction. Among all these Amish men, he appeared ordinary. Well, better than ordinary—he was the most handsome man here. The bishop turned his head and acknowledged Armin's arrival. Armin's posture grew taller and his stride more determined, unlike the reaction of most of the other men when they saw the bishop. I figured Armin had come over to save me from an embarrassing interaction. Yet, I felt secure talking to the bishop. He seemed a fine man.

Armin and the bishop greeted each other in Pennsylvania Dutch and spoke briefly, then switched to English.

“I want to speak to you, Armin,” Bishop Troyer said.

Armin's gaze remained level, and he stared at the bishop as if they were equals, which I figured was not in Armin's favor, because Bishop Troyer's brows lowered.

“I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you your name was brought up at the last bishop's meeting a few days ago,” he told Armin. “Almost every bishop in the county had some complaint.”

The way his tongue was working the inside of his mouth, Armin appeared to have something stuck between his teeth. But he didn't answer the bishop's question.

“Your brother has been more than generous,” the bishop said. “He could've turned around and sold Anna's house, just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Nathaniel has more than enough acreage, what with his two daughters married and living elsewhere.”

Armin shifted his weight to one leg. “Yah, mei Bruder is a generous man. I won't say a word against him.” But I got the feeling Armin had plenty on his mind: evidence that Nathaniel had treated him unfairly.