October song (15 page)

Made things right…Had he, really? No, he had not apologized to Vern Eisenberger that day.

His mind wandered back to all the things he’d readily given up to become Plain. Computer, printer, scanner, fax line, e-mail the works. Even writing articles and his short-story anthology by long hand. Each evening, after their family time

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of reading the Bible and praying together, Philip often wrote at his antique rolltop desk, while Rachel happily kept him com pany as she crocheted or rocked little Gabe to sleep. The nineteenth-century tambour desk had been one of his smartest pur chases that and an electric typewriter for completed and revised manuscripts to be sent off to various editors. Shedding his computer initially had been a step in the right direction, especially when inquiries of his “work” came up among Plain friends. Invariably, the question of his livelihood — what he did to make a living, aside from farming work — somehow entered their di alogue. When he mentioned that he was a writer, there seemed to be fewer eyebrows raised if he quickly explained that he used pen and paper. Although, the writing life wasn’t something too many Amish under stood. A fascination even obsession

with the arrangement and rearrangement of words was typically not understood among the general public, either.

Some of his Plain friends may have sus pected him of keeping a journal about their activities, making use of his new found “faith” as a means of exploitation. But he’d never considered that, hadn’t even thought of publishing his most recent

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stories. Not until Rachel read one of them and insisted that he send it off to an editor. He’d asked her why she thought it so im portant, and her response had been em phatic. “It’s time the English read some truth ‘bout us. Such a lot of myths, there are things made up. It’d be awful nice to see something in print that’szvaahrhaft—truthful.”

He’d smiled at her insistence, gathering her into his arms, holding her near, this lovely woman who believed in him. “I’ll think it over” was all he said. Now he again considered Rachel’s idea, especially since Zook’s barn burned down. “What about a story featuring a barn raising?” he asked his wife.

“I don’t see why not,” came her enthusi astic reply. “Plenty a’ folks outside our community prob’ly have no idea what goes into such a task.”

“What if I told on myself, in the story, that my behavior had caused a disagree ment among the brethren? Show our hu manity.., that we’re not perfect as some may think.”

Rachel liked the idea. So he continued writing, with the Lancaster farmland as a backdrop to his narrative, enjoying every minute. He would not concern himself

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with deciding which of his magazine pub lishers was the right one. Not until the final draft was approved by Rachel.

Candidly, he shared the joys, the blun ders, and even the laughable things that had happened to him since “joining church,” as the People said. But he was cognizant of his most recent gaffe.

“The brethren don’t hold grudges, do they?” he asked Rachel as they talked softly in bed one night.

Her pleasant countenance turned to a frown. “Why wouldja think so, dear?”

“Moses is aloof every time I come in contact with him. Especially since Zook’s barn fire.”

She reached for his hand. “Moses is Old Order, remember. Don’t worry yourself. The last thing he prob’ly wants to see is a fancy seeker comin’ into the neighborhood and surprising everyone by staying put for a lifetime.” Rachel paused, a smile on her face now. Then she grew more thoughtful. “Besides, I’m thinkin’ all the men must surely realize by now you grew up differ ently.”

“I’ve certainly made my share of mis takes since coming here,” Philip said.

Rachel leaned her head on his shoulder. “Are you thinkin’ of the day you rode in

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Ezra Lapp’s buggy?”

He hadn’t thought of that particular day recently. But since his sweetheart had reminded him of the incident, he definitely wanted to include the account in his ever-growing story collection…

It was entirely by accident that he had accepted a ride in Ezra Lapp’s carriage. Late in the afternoon, walking home from helping a neighboring farmer harvest corn, Philip noticed Ezra and son Amos driving toward him. “Wanna lift?” Ezra had asked.

“Well, sure. Denki,” he’d said, hopping into the backseat.

“We’ve gotta make one stop on the way,” Ezra added. “Hope it’s not a bother.”

“Fine with me.” And he settled back, watching the autumn scenery go by, listening as the father and son talked. His ears perked up when they switched toDeitschPennsylvania Dutch the German dialect spoken by Amish, not a written language. The Lapps were most likely unaware that he understood some of the unique language, due to Rachel’s and Annie’s ongoing instruction. “Deitsch is our home language ‘tis ever so soothing,” Rachel had told him, explaining that most Amish children speak it almost

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exclusively until the final year before they attend first grade.

So the Lapps continued to converse with each other in Dutch, discussing such topics as hopping a bus (“goin’ to Wash ington to witness the inauguration, if’n George W. Bush gets voted in as Presi dent”), also which young couples they sus pected of courting and heading for marriage come November’s wedding season.

Philip listened with interest, finding the men’s curiosity at going to the nation’s capital “to see history made before our eyes” most intriguing. “I thought we Plain folk steered clear of politics,” he said sud denly, forgetting that the Lapps might not have realized he understood Dutch.

“Well, I declare…” Ezra turned around and grinned.

“You pick up quick-like,” said Amos. “Sorry,Ididn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

“Jah, I believe you did!” Ezra replied, still beaming from ear to ear.

They had a good laugh over it, but when Philip tried to get back to his question about politics they’d arrived at the black smith’s — their only stop — and both men jumped out of the carriage, leaving him alone, the reins for the horse draped

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loosely over the front of the buggy.

Thinking he might move up one seat, at least hold the reins and sit in front, lest the horse wander off down the road with an inexperienced Amishman at the helm, he quickly crawled over the seat and sat there. He picked up the reins and, without warning, the horse began to trot.

“Whoa!” he called, hoping not to frighten the animal further. Yet the horse continued on.

Then, out on the road, the thirteen-hundred-pound thoroughbred began to gallop, making a sharp right at the traffic light at Highway 340, heading west toward the city of Lancaster.

“Whoa!” Philip shouted again, pulling back hard on the reins. “Stop!” But the horse paid no attention. Drivers of cars took notice, though, quickly turning off the road, blaring horns, making matters worse. “Lord, help me!” Philip prayed loudly, now standing in the carriage as he continued to jerk on the bridle.

Obviously upset — out of control — the horse ran toward a mailbox, the buggy sideswiping a fence in the process. After the collision, the carriage slid to the left and spun around, while the horse twisted free, dragging forty-some pounds of har-203

ness apparatus behind as he sped on, heading south on Lynwood Road.

Meanwhile, Philip found himself sprawled under the Lapps’ buggy, grateful he hadn’t been injured but puzzled by what to do about the liberated horse.

In the end, both he and the horse made news headlines. Lapp’s steed traveled nearly to Strasburg on Route 896, coming to a halt in front of Eldreth Pottery, in the parking lot. Sweating profusely, the ani mal’s hind legs were gouged and bleeding from the constant rubbing of hitch and straps of the harness…

“I should’ve remained sitting in the second seat.” Philip could chucklenovoas he caressed Rachel’s long hair. “Hindsight is far better than foresight.”

She laughed softly. “Who would’ve thought Dobbin might carry on so?”

He knew he needed lessons in driving a horse-drawn carriage. Thankfully, Lapp hadn’t held him responsible, and he’d tried to make it up to the farmer by helping with harvest that year, without pay. Ezra, though, wouldn’t hear of it.

Rachel wasn’t at all surprised when she heard of Philip’s attempt to make restitu tion. “People don’t usually hold grudges

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round here … not for something as inno cent as that.”

The event had brought plenty of laughs among the farmers; not at his expense, though he knew they thought of him as a novice. “We only laughwithyou, Philip,” his father-in-law, Benjamin Zook, liked to remind him. “Neveratyou.”

“Didja ever find out what Ezra Lapp meant by wantin’ to go to the inaugura tion?” asked Rachel sleepily.

He wondered if he ought to say. Fact was, both Ezra, his son, and another Amishman from nearby Gordonville were hoping to go. But only if Bush was the new man in office. They had high hopes that George W. might restore principles of hon esty and respectability to America. “Our country deserves that,” Ezra had said re cently. He also hoped for a better standard of farm commodity prices. Too many farmers had quit over the past twenty-four years or so. Several thousand acres had been thrown out of production. A sad state of affairs.

Ezra had given Philip the tip that the Gordonville farmer planned to keep a diary of the trip, if they went. “Go on over and talk to him. See if he’ll discuss politics with you,” joked Ezra.

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But Philip had dropped the issue. No need to seek out someone risk annoyance for the sake of a good story. He would wait for election results, then see which farmers actually followed through with the Washington trip.

He left Rachel the next morning and went on foot to John Zook’s, deep in thought. He had read accounts of outsiders

called “seekers” by mainstay Amish who’d joined various conservative

sects. And there always seemed to be a small fraction of folk from the “old school” who eyed a newcomer with suspicion, even skepticism. He had heard over the past few days through the grapevine, unreliable as it was that Moses was saying things like “Philip must be tryin’ to enter the sheepfold another way, his driving Vern’s pickup keeping a car out behind the house and whatnot.”

Grieved by the accusation, Philip had gone to visit his and Rachel’s New Order pastor, getting their minister’s opinion on the matter. In the end, Philip had asked for prayer, “for divine guidance in my dealings with Moses,” he said.

The pastor suggested Philip pay John Zook a visit soon. A long-standing and de

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vout member of the Old Order Amish, John was known to be slow to speak and quick to forgive. So Philip went to make things right, since the transgression had occurred on John’s property, and Zook himself had been witness to the anger from both Vern and Moses.

John was at work in the small woodshed behind the chicken house when Philip ar rived. The workshop door was standing open. Stooping, Philip poked his head in the doorway and saw John leaning against the

workbench, holding a mug of black coffee. “Morning.”

He looked up. “lgTiegehts,Philip.” “Thought I’d come over and talk.” He wondered if John had heard the buzz going around. Moving to the workbench, he picked up some wood shavings and stared at them in his hand.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Word has it I’m a troublemaker.”

John shook his head. “Moses talks too much … always has.”

“He watches me like a hawk.”

“Never mind ‘bout Moses. You made a poor judgment call, nothing more,” John said with a slow smile.

“I’m sorry about that.” Philip let the wood shavings fall onto the workbench.

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“There’s something else.” The feed sales man kept coming to mind. Philip wanted to clear the air with John while he was here.

“Speak freely.”

“Have you heard anything more from Vern Eisenberger?”

“He’s just put out is all.” John breathed in audibly. “I daresay Vern’s more upset over a farmer changing brands of feed than anything.” He shook his head. “The man’s carryin’ a chip on his shoulder . . spout ing off ‘bout us Amish in general to his English customers.”

Philip wondered if Vern had seen the newspaper account of the runaway horse a while back. Everyone else in the area had read the story, or so it seemed. For weeks after the incident, even strangers had come up to him, stopping to ask questions at the hardware store and the like, wanting to know if he was in fact the Philip Bradley who’d lost control of Ezra Lapp’s driving horse.

Maybethatwas part of Eisenberger’s beef, come to think of it. A name like Bradley stuck out like a sore thumb around here. His name was anything but Plain in conservative circles where Beiler, Lapp, and Zook were the most common

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surnames. He hadn’t thought of it as posing trouble before. Rachel had cheer fully taken his name when they married, never once citing it as potential for trouble. Their baby son, Gabriel Bradley, would grow up in the close-knit society, most likely court and marry a Plain girl — giveherthe modern name. So it would go, from one generation to the next.

“I wish I’d never seen that pickup,” he said sorrowfully.

John cuffed him firmly on the shoulder. “Put this Eisenberger incident to rest. For giving yourself is mighty important. gaughin’ at shortcomings is, too. A gut belly laugh now and then makes a body live longer.”

Philip was all for that. “But how can I make amends with Vern?”

“Ask almighty God ‘bout that.” Straightening, John walked to the door of the shed and peered out. “The Good Book says in Matthew, ‘Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.’ Ain’t so?”

Nodding in agreement, he followed John out of the shed and into the sunlight.

Before daybreak they came. On foot, by

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horse-drawn buggy, and some on horse back. Word had spread through the churches last Sunday, in each of the local districts. Seventy-five men came with their own tools and work aprons tied around their middles, some hauling in planks, posts, and hickory pegs to raise Zook’s barn. Women and children came, too, in wagons loaded down with food hampers, hot coffee, and iced tea.