A Stranger's Wish (31 page)

I went upstairs and lay on my crimson-and-blue quilt, where I stared miserably at the ceiling. When a stray tear began rolling across my temple into my hair, I turned on my side and let it be absorbed by the quilt. I shivered, and then I twitched and turned until the quilt was covering me. I curled on my side again, trying to get warm.

I shall stay here forever, Lord, curled in this tight little ball of pain. You don’t mind, do You?

Even if the Lord didn’t mind, which I suspected He did, I knew that eventually Mr. Edgars would. He had this thing about his teachers coming to work each morning. At least I had arranged to take tomorrow off for the wedding. I sighed deeply, a melancholy and self-pitying habit I had recently acquired.

I’ll break it, Mom. I promise. Someday. When I’m happy again. If I ever am. Just don’t wave that finger in my face. This isn’t buck-up-my-girl time.

I sighed again. Between thoughts of Mom and Mr. Edgars, my wallowing had lost its flavor. I might as well get up and go eat dinner—if I could swallow. I pulled myself upright and went downstairs to see who was here now.

Friends and relatives I had never seen before had been visiting all week, helping with preparations and offering good wishes, and the festive air had intensified as the wedding day grew ever closer. A new Amish family was about to be established, and the whole society recognized the significance and importance of this fact. The Lancaster County Amish community was healthy and growing. The retention rate after
rumspringa
was impressively high. And Ruth and Isaiah were another patch in the quilt of the People’s lives.

With tomorrow the big day, the shed off the kitchen bulged with food, provisions had been made to stable all the horses expected, and the big downstairs room had been emptied of all of its everyday furniture.

“How long will this wedding last?” I asked Jake. “The actual ceremony, I mean.”

He sat in the doorway to his apartment, and I sat on the bottom step leading to my rooms. We were a little pocket of calm in the whirlwind that had been sweeping the house since daybreak.

The men had been killing and cleaning chickens, ducks, and turkeys; the women had been baking pies, making dressing to stuff the fowl, and peeling enough potatoes to feed my entire school. The men also cleaned the celery, emptied the garbage, and built temporary tables for the wedding feast. These tables now lined the entire downstairs room. The house was redolent with the scent of onions, celery, and spices.

“The service will take three to four hours,” Jake said stiffly. He was still slightly angry with me over my accusation two nights ago that he hid behind others. Or maybe it was from the suggestion that he meet Rose. I didn’t have the emotional energy to figure it out right now. Maybe later.

“It takes four hours?” I stared at him with no enthusiasm. “I’m used to sitting still for thirty-five to forty-five minutes for a sermon at most. Four hours is a bit long, isn’t it?”

“And wait until Old Amos gives his sermon,” Jake said with a harsh laugh. “He says the same thing every time. The same thing. Not that you’ll understand.” He looked at me. “It’ll all be in High German.”

Four hours of High German. Maybe I should just go to school after all and show up in time for the feast.

Ruth gave a sudden peal of laughter at something Isaiah said, and as I watched them, I knew I wouldn’t miss this wedding for anything. Not only was I curious, but I liked Ruth and her practical joker very much.

“What will this Old Amos say that I won’t understand?”

“He always talks about Noah,” Jake said. “He used to do Sarah and Abraham until finally someone told him that he always said the same thing. So he switched, and now he always says the same thing about Noah.”

“What does he say?”

“He talks about how corrupt Noah’s world was and how Noah and his family followed God and how God kept them safe through the flood. So everyone should be certain they raise up a family that follows God, and He’ll keep them safe through the floods of life.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” I said.

Jake shrugged, forgetting to be angry for the first time since our fight. “It takes him at least a half hour to say it.”

I laughed. “How about your father? Does he speak at weddings?”

“Always, but he tries to tailor his comments to the couple, and he works hard to be short and to the point.”

“That’s not surprising,” I said as Jake’s phone sounded in the distance. “Your father’s a very fine man.”

Jake stiffened suddenly, looked at me as if he’d never seen me, and then wheeled into his rooms without a word. He shut his door firmly behind him.

I sat, confused, thinking back over what I’d just said. How could I have upset him by saying his father was a fine man?

I went back upstairs feeling as dynamic as melted ice cream.

I didn’t feel much better the next morning as I dressed for the wedding, but the excitement was contagious as soon as I came downstairs. Ruth and Isaiah and their two attending couples had already left for the Stoltzfus farm where the ceremony was to take place, but the Zook farm was bustling with last-minute activity. I was surprised to learn that John and Mary probably wouldn’t go to the wedding. They would be too busy with the duties of preparation and hosting.

My mother would die before she missed my wedding—if and when I ever had one. And Dad had big plans to give his baby away, even though he always teased about holding the ladder so my groom and I could elope. It seemed very sad that John wouldn’t get to preach at his own daughter’s wedding.

“Won’t Ruth and Isaiah feel bad if your parents aren’t there?” I asked Jake as he drove me to the Stoltzfus farm. He offered no explanation for his abrupt leaving last night, but his stiffness had returned.

“Parents often don’t go to the wedding,” he simply said. “They’re too busy with last-minute preparations for the feasting. Everybody understands.”

I shrugged mentally. If everyone understood, then it wasn’t an issue. Cultural differences were such fascinating things.

I took a seat on the back bench in the women’s section and watched the festival of Amish life swirl around me. Several of the women whom I had previously met nodded shyly to me and smiled. I was relieved to see I wasn’t the only English guest, but we were a definite minority. I saw Andy and Zeke slip into seats beside Jake. It was warming to see the brothers shake hands with obvious affection. The rest of the English family, including daughters-in-law and grandchildren, sat near me in the back. Though they were relatives, this was a community day, and none of us were part of the community.

Ruth and Isaiah sat on the front row with their attending couples. One by one the district ministers rose and gave their sermons on the responsibilities and privileges of marriage. Just as Jake had warned, Old Amos rambled on and on. By contrast, the others spoke briefly and forcefully. I had no idea what any of them said, but everyone listened carefully and nodded their heads.

I thought of the last wedding I had attended, that of my college roommate. There had been flowers and music, and Mandie had worn yards of lace. The groomsmen had worn morning coats, and the bridesmaids, including me, had been resplendent in a gorgeous shade of teal and carried nosegays of pink and crimson roses with trailing ivy. We had purposely and forcefully called attention to ourselves, dressing extravagantly for the special occasion.

By contrast Ruth and Isaiah were dressed much as they were any other day except that everything they wore was new. Ruth had told me that she would take the fresh white cape and apron she was wearing and pack them away, not wearing them again until her burial, but Isaiah’s shirt and pants and hat would join his wardrobe as Sunday clothes.

My back hurt before the service was half over, but I tried not to squirm, especially since the children around me were sitting so quietly. One mother near me touched her fidgeting three-year-old, and he immediately stilled. A small piece of whoopie pie was his reward.

Suddenly, all I wanted in this world was a whoopie pie.

When the service finally ended, everyone headed for the Zook farm. Jake and I arrived first, and he pulled as far out of the way as he could. The rest of the family parked off the farm and walked over.

Soon buggy after buggy turned into the drive. The horses were quickly released from the shafts and led to the makeshift barn, where they were tethered, fed, and watered. Buggies filled the drive, a sea of gray enclosures and black wheels, the shafts pointing to the sky.

The men gathered in groups to talk and tell stories, their black felt hats firmly in place. The teenagers eyed each other in the manner of teens of any culture, and the little children played tag and kicked an old soccer ball, working off some of their contained energy. The women, chattering and laughing, gravitated to the kitchen and the final preparation for serving the food.

As I watched the press of people, I felt very much apart from them. I wanted only to be alone. I
needed
to be alone. All the camaraderie and love was more than I could deal with at the moment.

I slipped upstairs and traded my heels for a pair of flats. I hoped Ruth didn’t see me leave, but I doubted it would even register if she did. The scores of people milling around gossiping, storytelling, and eating made it impossible to know who was doing what or going where.

I walked slowly down the road to Aunt Betty Lou’s and Uncle Bud’s, where I’d parked my car. It was a crisp November day, sunny and bright. The branches were largely bare, the flowers dead, shriveled by the sharp snap of frost last week. It was the beginning of the stark season.

I drove my yellow car aimlessly for a while, and then I found myself pulling up in front of Holiday House.

Well, why not?
I parked and went up to Mr. Geohagan’s room.

When I walked in, he was busy talking to the guy with no chest, the one who had visited him yesterday. They were examining some of the papers Mr. Geohagan had spread all over the bed.

They stopped talking as soon as I walked in the room, looking at me and then at each other as though I’d caught them spiking the punch at the high school dance. Mr. Geohagan frowned and the strange man stared as though he couldn’t believe I had been so tactless as to enter.

I suddenly felt thirteen, the awkward, inept intruder who wanted to be part of the gang but would never be accepted. I blinked in surprise. What was happening here? The strange man was the one who didn’t belong, not me. I’d literally risked my life for this old man. I was the true and loyal friend. Wasn’t I?

Mr. Geohagan waved his hand dismissively at me. “Another time, Kristie,” he said abruptly.

“Sure,” I said and left.

I told myself all the way down the hall that the tears stinging my eyes were foolish, that Mr. Geohagan hadn’t meant to hurt my feelings, that I was just super sensitive right now. And while I knew I was right, I still had to blink like crazy to keep tears from spilling over and streaming down my cheeks.

If I didn’t count stray tears, which I didn’t, I hadn’t cried about Clarke yet. I knew that when I did, it wouldn’t be a pretty sight. My skin gets blotchy and my nose turns red. My face scrunches up in a pathetic mask. If and when I cried, I’d better be alone.

In the lobby I picked up the last copy of the morning’s
Intelligencer Journal
. I looked at the front page as much to protect my wobbling self-control as to see what was going on in the world. A supremely confident Adam Hurlbert, the perfect candidate, smiled at me from under an astonishing headline that read:

ACCUSATIONS HURLED AT HURLBERT

Would-Be Senator Cited for Tax Evasion

21

I
read the article with the byline of Barnum Hadley in disbelief.

Adam Hurlbert, Pennsylvania’s front-running candidate for the United States Senate, has been accused of tax-evasion.

The
Intelligencer Journal
has turned over to police evidence uncovered by this reporter that documents these charges.

Included in the evidence is a record of Hurlbert’s personal expenses for the years 1990–2006. The record clearly shows Hurlbert spending money far in excess of his declared income for these same years. Receipts for many extravagant purchases, such as vacation villas, furniture, and jewelry, even a yacht—“the tip of the iceberg,” says an unidentified source—are included as proof of the charges.

Also included in the evidence turned over to the police is a detailed financial statement purporting to show that when Hurlbert Construction contracted or subcontracted with firms, Adam Hurlbert, CEO and sole owner of Hurlbert Construction, inevitably made large personal investments in the stock markets or large deposits in banks outside the country. The timing of these financial transactions is at best suspect.

Authorities will investigate the possibility of illegal kickbacks.

Hurlbert’s local campaign headquarters refuses to comment on the story, saying only that the candidate and his wife, Irene Parsons Carmody Hurlbert, daughter of former Pennsylvania governor Benjamin Parsons, are in western Pennsylvania soliciting last-minute support for Tuesday’s election.

I looked up in shock. “He’s a crook? I can’t believe it!”

I must have spoken aloud because a man walking by said, “I know. I can’t believe it, either. And I was going to vote for the guy!”

“Me too,” I said, holding out the paper. “Do you think it’s all true?”