Rebecca's Choice (23 page)

Reuben nodded. “The Yost Mullet family is suffering, and I had to talk with them at length. His wife’s in poor enough health. Now the vet thinks his cattle have picked up some strange disease. Milk production is way down, and I suppose the church will have to help.”

“Nine children,” Rachel said, with sympathy in her voice.

Her statement seemed to lift Reuben’s load. She wondered why but didn’t have to wait long before he answered, “I already left them money.”

“You did?” She could tell now he had expected her opposition. “From your goat money?”

“Yes,” he said nodding, “this was one of the first times I had money to give someone like that.”

“It’s good you could help,” she told him, her hands busy with the food.

He seemed surprised, and that bothered her. She wondered when he would stop reacting as such. Surely she had been nice before.

That night, in the stillness of their room with Reuben asleep beside her, the horror of her actions nearly overwhelmed her. Her mind raced. Why did she do this? Was she evil beyond even her own imagination?

The money,
she told herself,
that’s why.
Yet her thoughts refused to quit. Her rationalizations didn’t hold their ground. Fear swept over her like the ocean waves she had seen as a child during a family vacation. As if she still stood on that beach, sand between her bare toes, fear overwhelmed her heart just like those great mountains of water crashed onto the shore.

Her mother’s arms comforted her then, feeling tender around her shoulders. There was no mother now, just the voice thundering inside her and the blame burning like a fire.

“It’s the child,” she whispered. “It’s his fault.”

Her mind sought sanity. She got out of bed, not caring if her movements disturbed Reuben. He stirred and turned in her direction. She knew the moonlight was bright enough to reveal her swollen body, and she groaned to let him know she suffered.

“Baby troubling you?” he asked.

“I think so,” she said. “I can’t sleep.”

“It’s
Da Hah’s
way,” he said. Reverence filled his voice even at this hour of the night.

So unchanged,
she thought,
he thinks he’s still holy. I absolutely know he loves money. He has become like me—only not enough yet.

“He has made us fruitful in our old age,” Reuben said into the stillness of the night. “Can I get you something?”

“I’ll be okay soon,” she said and sat down on the edge of the bed.

When he had fallen back to sleep, she slipped under the covers. Something about the sound of his voice had cleared her brain and chased the tormenting demons away. She chose to think it was her own power, the strength of her own will, and resolved to triumph over the obstacles life placed in her way.

The same thing happened when Reuben read the Scripture the next morning in church. At the sight of Reuben’s face and the sound of his voice wrapping around the sacred words, her feelings of fear and shame cleared. Rachel dismissed her improved emotions as imagined.

That evening when Luke brought Susie home for supper, she watched Luke’s face as he gazed at Susie. He loved her. Goodness seemed to wash over his whole being. She watched in astonishment. Luke had become a man. Yet they didn’t have money, she reminded herself. She could never forget that.

As Luke and Susie prepared to leave, Rachel smiled and said, “You have to come back again.”

“We will, Mom,” Luke said, but the look in his eye was the look of a skeptic. He would not be won over easily. Rachel knew she must do nothing to raise his suspicions, at least till after late summer.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR

T
he weeks after communion passed slowly for Rebecca. John had taken her to the west district for services that Sunday. Although a few raised their eyebrows, John and Rebecca experienced less discomfort there than they would have at their home district. There they would have had to remain seated, exposed before all, while the other members partook of bread and wine.

Rebecca’s time with John had taken on a dismal feel. They talked of everything except what bothered them most. On that subject the door was shut.

“There’s all summer,” John had said, when he left on Sunday night.

“It seems like plenty of time,” Rebecca had replied.

“Surely something will come up.”

She held the door open for him. “At least you love me.”

“You know I always will.”

“Little use if we can’t get married.”

“Don’t say that,” he had said, his foot on the step. “There will be a way.”

“I hope so,” she had replied, and then he was gone. She hadn’t followed him out to the buggy but had stayed on the steps in the soft warmth of the night. The light of the kerosene lamp behind her, she had waved at the black shape of his buggy as it left and stood there till the sound faded in the distance, the music of horses’ hooves on blacktop.

This afternoon the weather was balmy, the first fluffy clouds of summer in the sky with their promise of more to come. The morning sunrise had been bright red, with great streaks of orange spread skyward. Mattie had taken one look and moved up wash day. Behind the house their hurried work now hung, the wash not yet dry.

Rebecca felt the urge to visit the covered bridge again, and Mattie agreed when Rebecca suggested the outing. As long as Rebecca came back in time to help finish the wash. After some calculations between them, she set out.

Late last fall was the last time she had made the walk to the bridge. With winter and all that had transpired, there had been neither the time nor the inclination for walks. Today the memories of past excursions urged her on.

She had often come to the bridge to get away from the constant work that needed to be done at home, to pause, to hold life at arm’s length, to hear water run over rocks, to think of things greater than herself.

At the first curve, a smaller bridge spanned a little creek. Rebecca paused but quickly moved on. She wanted to reach the larger river, which the Harshville covered bridge spanned. A little burg lay beyond, its quaint charm contained by the bridge on one side and a swell of low hills on the other.

The last sweep of road revealed the bridge, which sat low over the river, a noisy contraption when driven across, wrapped in white clapboard, its roof a rusty red. Here John had asked her to be his wife. The memory held its delights, but she sought other delights today.

She desired a release from earthly attachments, to think of God, to notice the marks of His fingers in the land around her, to feel, to reach out to the One who could not be seen. Rebecca stepped off the road and navigated carefully down to the water’s edge. The density of the underbrush increased with its nearness to the gurgling current, the path from last fall still there, overhung with the budding life around it but kept back by wild visitors who used this shortcut to the waters below.

A car rattled across the bridge, disturbing the silence but not her enjoyment. Across the water, two children, about preschool age from their size and mannerisms, came down from the houses nearby. They waved to her but soon retreated when they heard the distant sound of their mother’s voice.

Rebecca was alone, her spirit still, and her thoughts lifted skyward.
Where is God in this life I am living?
She knew the answer, yet she wondered,
Why don’t I see Him?

Is He so beyond comprehension that He leaves only His will as the path home to His dwelling? Home
—she thought—
heaven, a place of comfort.

She found the thought of death flowing together alongside that of life in this place. The waters came from somewhere beyond her knowledge and flowed eventually to the ocean. There it became a part of that vastness but never ceased to exist. Yet here, the part she could see, was steady, sure, calm.

Like us,
she thought,
when we are in His will. He will care and protect us, because we are His creation.

Her thoughts came back to the present. She hoped to have a home soon with John just beyond those hills on Wheat Ridge—to live, to do what was right, and to die some day when it was His will.

From behind she heard a car approach and waited for the rattle of the bridge. When there was none, it broke her concentration and made her turn her head. The driver had parked on the shoulder, away from the bridge, just around the last bend. Already he had climbed out, the car door closing behind him.

The distance between them was not great. She could see his outline but not the features of his face. He looked older. His car was a dark blue, expensive from what she knew of automobiles. With a glance behind him, he came toward her, his step quick, certain. His arms swung briskly at his side.

If he had been younger, she would have felt fear. He stopped above the bank and made no effort to come down.

“Rebecca Keim?” he asked. His voice reached her clearly.

Surprised she answered, “Yes,” but made no move to join him.

“May I come down?” he asked.

“Who are you?” She still felt no fear.

His laugh was low, bubbly, she thought, a sweet note in it, and she felt no guilt at the observation.

“Manny Troyer. I asked at the house. Your mother said you were down here.”

She nodded her head, and he slowly made his way down. His age showed more than she had noticed at first.

“Good thing I still know how to climb mountains,” he said and laughed again. “I suppose you are surprised that I should be looking for you.”

“Yes. I don’t know you.”

“You know Mary, the van driver. You’ve met her… a few times,” he said smiling again, “and Atlee?”

She knew her face showed the answer, and he nodded again.

“You know them. But who am I? I’m Atlee’s uncle. But I’m also something else.”

When she said nothing, he continued.

“I’m the executor of Emma’s will.”

“Emma,” she said. The world by the river crashed down, and the other returned with force. “So it is true?”

“You don’t know?”

“Yes. Well… they said,” she laughed, the sound hollow in her ears. “I’ve been paying for it already. I guess it had better be real.”

“Paying for it? I thought I was supposed to pay you?”

“That’s not the way it’s working out.”

“I see.” He paused, watching the flow of water and then continued, “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

“You really are the executor?”

“Yes.” He paused, then produced his wallet. “I have the lawyer’s papers in the car. But for now… I am Manny Troyer.” He handed her a plastic card with his picture on it. “And this is my Haiti driver’s license.”

She studied the picture briefly. He looked younger, his smile broad, head alert, happy too, she thought.

“I see,” she said and handed the card back. “You have questions?”

“May I sit down?” He pointed toward the river bank.

“Sure,” she shrugged. “Must be long questions.”

“Maybe. It’s a long story. You don’t look like I expected—not at all.”

“Really?” she said raising her eyebrows.

“No. Beautiful though. Like Emma.”

“Oh…” She felt the red creep up her neck.

“I’m sorry,” he said and settled on the ground and shifted to make himself comfortable. “You have to excuse me. That sounded crude. I’ve been through a lot during the last few weeks.” He waved his hand at her when she glanced at him. “I know. You don’t understand. I wish you wouldn’t have to understand all this, but there seems to be no other way.”

She could not have been more puzzled, and she knew her face showed it.

“The questions. Yes.” His eyes had found the water again, and he watched it flow downstream.

“So you knew Emma?” she asked, before he could continue.

“Yes.” His smile was grim, his eyes still on the water. “I thought I knew her. Long ago. Turns out I didn’t, after all. Are you like her?” He turned sharply toward her.

“I don’t know. Emma? I doubt. She was much better than me. She was a schoolteacher, a very good one.”

“That’s what it sounds like.” His eyes stared at the ripples now. “Emma was beautiful too. I had myself convinced there couldn’t be two of you. That’s why I said what I did. I guess I was wrong. You are beautiful. I guess you’re like Emma. Not quite but in a way. Does something else mean more to you than love?”

“You don’t think I would,” she replied, hearing the shock in her own voice mingled with horror.

“Isn’t that what you are doing now? This Amish boy, does he know?”

“Know what?”

“Well… about the money, of course. But before that, about Atlee—that you loved him? That you will marry him only because he’s Amish?”

She felt anger rise, and the shock subside. “I have no secrets with John. You are welcome to tell him what you wish. He already knows. I want to marry him because I love him. Of course he has to be Amish. It’s the money that causes us the trouble. Do you know we couldn’t go along with communion this spring?” She knew her voice rose, but she didn’t care. “John didn’t have to stay back. He stayed back to stand with me. Why don’t you just take this money and give it to the family it belongs to. I don’t want any of it.”