Rum Spring (3 page)

Several of Dylan’s friends—Willie included—had suggested she should become a filmmaker one day. She didn’t want to make movies. She wanted to talk about them for hours on end. She wanted to write about them. When she went to college the following year—she had already applied to Villanova, Temple, and Penn State, and was trying to decide between them if she was accepted—she planned to major in journalism with an eye on becoming a film critic so she could get paid to see movies instead of the other way around. Carrie Rickey of the Philadelphia Inquirer and Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun Times were her heroes. After she wrote a review, she always took a peek at her favorite critics’ take on the same film in order to grade herself. They had the occasional difference of opinion but, much to her delight, they were usually on the same page.

The weekly column she wrote for The Chronicle only served to whet her appetite. She often found herself writing reviews for films she wasn’t assigned to cover. Besides being good practice, it helped enrich her moviegoing experience. It reminded her to go beneath the surface and examine the movie from every angle. To parse every line for hidden meanings, even the throwaways. Now she would get to share the experience with Rebecca. What could be better than that?

Dylan forced herself to hit the brakes. Rebecca had been controlled her whole life. Told what to say, what to do, what to wear, and what to think. The time had come for her to be allowed to make her own decisions. Dylan would leave it to Rebecca to plan the evening. Whatever Rebecca decided to do was fine with her. All Dylan wanted to do was be close enough to see the look of wonder cross Rebecca’s face as she finally discovered what she had been missing for so long.

Dylan slid her journal into her messenger bag and reached for her car keys. When she picked Rebecca up, she wanted to hold the door open for her and say something gallant like “Your chariot awaits, my lady,” but she didn’t think she could pull it off. Not with a straight face, anyway. For her sixteenth birthday the year before, her parents had bought her a VW, a bright yellow new Beetle that was like a happy face on wheels. That didn’t exactly scream gallant.

Her father looked up when Dylan headed downstairs. He was standing in front of the mirror in the foyer trying to make sure his tie was straight. Dylan’s mother Grace was running around making sure she had turned everything off. They had reservations at her mom’s favorite Italian restaurant, which meant, Dylan knew, that her dad was probably going to return home with sauce stains all over the tie that currently occupied so much of his attention.

“How do I look?” he asked, buttoning his gray sport coat.

Dylan gave him the once over. At fifty-six, he no longer possessed the size 30 waist he had sported all through high school and college, but he was still in relatively good shape despite his admitted weakness for cheese steaks and garlic fries. The touch of gray at his temples gave him a distinguished air that was offset by the boyish glint in his bright blue eyes. “Not half bad. Even borderline handsome.” She reached up and gave his tie a final adjustment. “If you play your cards right, you might get lucky tonight.”

He waggled his strawberry-blond eyebrows mischievously. “You think?”

“Who knows? Maybe I will, too.”

His expression turned serious. “You do know this isn’t a date, don’t you? If you have feelings for Rebecca, she can’t possibly return them.”

“I know.”

“I hope you mean that and you’re not just saying what you think I want to hear. I don’t want to see you get hurt, Dylan.”

“Neither do I. And I won’t.”

“Rebecca is a sweet girl and I wish things could be different. For her and for you.”

“Dad, I know you mean well but you’re kind of bumming me out. Can I enjoy tonight without worrying about tomorrow? Or next week? Or next year?”

“Sorry, honey. I just want to make sure you aren’t expecting more from your friendship with Rebecca than she will be able to give. Has she ever said she wants to be more than friends?”

“I don’t know if she has even allowed herself to believe such things are possible, but I think it’s telling that she wants to spend the first night of her rumspringa with me, don’t you?”

“She couldn’t have chosen a better escort,” her mom said. She was wearing a beaded black cocktail dress, a white silk shawl thrown over her shoulders. Her lustrous red hair was swept up and away from her face, which was framed by a pair of dangling emerald earrings. She looked stunning. Dylan was blown away. So was her dad. He let out a piercing wolf whistle.

With a broad grin, her mom twirled like a runway model on the end of a catwalk. “You like?” she asked, enjoying the attention.

“Wow, Mom. You look great.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

“No curfew tonight, right?”

Her mother’s grin disappeared. “You wish. Just because Rebecca gets to break all the rules doesn’t mean you do, too.” She kissed Dylan on the forehead and gave her a hug. “Be home by eleven, and no drinking and driving.”

“And don’t forget to watch out for the other guy,” her father said.

Dylan headed for the door. “Have fun tonight, Dad. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“I thought you said you wanted us to have fun.”

While she made the short drive from Lancaster to Lutz, Dylan reflected on the conversation she and her father had just shared. Was he right? Was she expecting too much?

“I know you want what’s best for me, Dad, but this time I think I’m in a better position to judge that than you are.”

Her father was the reason Dylan and Rebecca had met. When she was a kid, Dylan used to ride along with him while he made his propane deliveries. She would remain in the truck while he hopped out to check the levels on the gas tanks and refill them as necessary. At the Lapps’ house, she had waved shyly at Rebecca, who was playing Parcheesi on the front porch with her sister.

Like most Amish children, Rebecca’s primary language was Pennsylvania Dutch. She didn’t begin to learn English until her first day of school. Dylan knew enough Pennsylvania Dutch to say hello and good-bye, but not enough to have an entire conversation.

“Guder mariye,” she had said in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“Good morning,” Rebecca had replied in heavily accented English.

“Wie bischt du heit?”

“I am fine,” Rebecca had said slowly, the frown on her face indicating how much effort it took for her to form the words. “How are you?”

The girls had continued their give-and-take on each subsequent visit, Dylan picking up more Pennsylvania Dutch and Rebecca learning more English. Their conversations had grown longer and longer as time passed. Because of the restrictions imposed on interactions with outsiders, however, they had remained little more than acquaintances until Dylan took part in Take Your Daughter to Work Day when she was ten.

Dylan remembered the day well.

Her heart had skipped a beat when the door to My Souvenirs opened. Her first customer. And it was Rebecca. As Rebecca approached the counter, Dylan tried to remember all the things her mother had told her during their brief training session that morning. What was the most important thing? Oh, yeah. Greet the customer with a smile in your voice to match the one on your face.

“Good morning, Rebecca. Good morning, Mrs. Lapp.”

Rebecca’s mother nodded in reply and quickly turned her attention to several wood bread boxes on display. Rebecca returned Dylan’s greeting. “Good morning, Dylan. May I speak to your mother?”

“She’s in the back checking inventory. I’m running the register today. Is there something I can help you with?”

Rebecca looked back at Mrs. Lapp, who gave her a nod of encouragement. Clearly nervous, Rebecca placed a folded quilt on the counter. “I finished this yesterday. The other quilts your mother has for sale are so beautiful that mine might not belong. Do you think you could find a place for it in the shop?”

Dylan spread the quilt on the counter and examined the intricate patterns. She might not be able to tell one stitch from another, but she recognized talent when she saw it. Rebecca was only nine years old. How had she managed to create something so accomplished? Dylan couldn’t imagine duplicating the feat. For her, coloring without going outside the lines was accomplishment enough.

“This is beautiful. You did this by yourself?”

Rebecca nodded, her cheeks turning bright red. “I would like to begin earning my keep. I have more quilts at home and I could make another in a few weeks’ time. If I brought them in, do you think someone might want to buy them?”

“I think they’ll walk out of the store as soon as you bring them in.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” Dylan carefully refolded the quilt. “What kind of machine did you use?”

Rebecca held up her hands and smiled as if Dylan had just told the world’s funniest joke.

“Duh,” Dylan said, feeling her cheeks burn. “No electricity, Dylan.”

“My mother has a machine she runs by tapping her foot against a pedal, but I’m better with my hands.”

Dylan thought Rebecca’s comment was meant more to ease her embarrassment than to impart information. She appreciated Rebecca’s thoughtfulness.

Rebecca darted her eyes at her mother, then leaned forward. “That didn’t sound like pride, did it?” she asked in a whisper.

Dylan had smiled, simultaneously touched and amused by Rebecca’s desire to downplay her obvious gift. “It sounded like a statement of fact to me. But I won’t tell if you won’t. It’ll be our secret.”

Dylan wondered how many other secrets she and Rebecca shared. When Rebecca’s thoughts turned to the future, did she dream of having a husband and children, or did she want to see what the world had to offer?

They had not been able to have an intimate conversation since that day in the cornfield two years before. Most of Dylan’s time was taken up by school and her job at the theater. In addition to her chores on the family farm, Rebecca had a job of her own.

She worked at the Sunrise Bakery, which was across the street from the restaurant where Marian Schlabach worked as a waitress. She and Marian met on the road each morning and made the three-mile walk together. In the afternoon, they walked home or hitched a ride with friends if one of their buggies happened to be passing by. The journey wasn’t so bad in the spring and summer when the weather was nice, Dylan thought. Come winter, though, Rebecca and Marian would turn into human Popsicles before they reached their destinations.

Marian had been Sarah’s best friend for years, but Dylan couldn’t remember the last time she had seen them together. Was it before Sarah’s marriage or after? Either way, Dylan never seemed to see Rebecca any longer unless Marian was around.

Time alone had become a precious commodity. That was about to change. Now they were going to have all the time in the world.

Dylan turned onto a dirt road. Half a dozen cars and trucks were parked haphazardly along the embankment. Dylan pulled in next to a gray buggy and checked the address to make sure she had come to the right place. Rebecca had asked Dylan to meet her at Marian Schlabach’s house, but the house Dylan was parked in front of was dark except for a single gas lamp that flickered in an upstairs window. Downstairs, a side door was slightly ajar, signaling the crowd of boys milling in the yard that there were girls inside who might be persuaded to go out courting.

Most of the boys were Amish, but Dylan couldn’t tell them from the English friends they had brought with them. Their bowl haircuts had been shaved off or allowed to grow long and they had tossed their dark suits, black socks, and black shoes aside in favor of T-shirts, jeans, and tennis shoes.

Dylan watched as one of the boys aimed a flashlight beam at the upstairs window. A few minutes later, Marian appeared in the open doorway and invited some of the boys inside. Dylan didn’t know if she was supposed to join them so she stayed put and waited for Rebecca to show up. She didn’t have to wait long. Less than five minutes passed before the boys came back downstairs, followed by about twenty girls dressed in a traditional manner.

Dylan looked through the sea of faces until she spotted Rebecca’s. Resisting the urge to honk the horn, she flashed her headlights and climbed out of her car.

Rebecca waved and came running over. “Did you bring them?” she asked, giving Dylan a quick hug.

Dylan nodded. “Right here.” She reached into her messenger bag and pulled out a pair of jeans and her favorite blouse. She and Rebecca were roughly the same size. The jeans might be a little big, but with the belt cinched a little tighter, they should be fine.

Rebecca looked at the clothes in her hands. “All my dresses are solid colors. This is the first time I’ll wear something that bears a pattern.”

“I’m sure the blouse will look great on you. Even better than it does on me.”

“I doubt that, but thank you for letting me borrow it.”

Rebecca gave Dylan another hug, then pulled off her bonnet and loosened her flowing hair. Dylan had to restrain herself from running her hands through it.

In the other cars, girls were smoking, drinking, and cranking up the radios. Country, rock, and rap artists fought for dominance of the airwaves. Under normal circumstances, music of any kind was forbidden for fear it would stir up the listeners’ emotions. The members of the caravan that snaked up the road aimed to put the theory to the test.

“Where are they going?” Dylan kept her eyes averted as Rebecca changed clothes in the backseat. She couldn’t see much anyway. The new moon didn’t provide enough illumination for her rearview mirror to be used as a spyglass, but that didn’t stop her from trying.

“To the Kwik Stop so the girls can change clothes and the boys can buy beer. There’s a hoedown in Casey. Everyone’s going to be there.”

All the more reason to stay away, Dylan thought. She wanted Rebecca all to herself. She smiled as Rebecca climbed into the front seat. She had expected Rebecca to look different when she changed clothes, but she hadn’t expected this. Someone who strived to be plain had turned into someone breathtaking. “Well, hello, gorgeous,” she said, mimicking Barbra Streisand in Funny Girl.