The Fiddler (26 page)

It took a good half hour or longer to track down the setting of the Amish Singing—on Harvest Drive, southwest of Hickory Hollow. Amelia was sure it was the correct spot when she saw the black open buggies parked in rows along the side yard. They were all shined up and waiting for the couples to settle in for a nice long ride. How fun would it be to be an Amish girl on a night like this, riding in a convertible, of sorts, with your boyfriend.

Amelia smiled to herself as she parked off the road and sat in her car with the windows down to listen, far enough away so as not to draw attention. Or so she hoped.

The Amish teenagers milled around outside the barn, dressed as though attending church. The girls wore green, royal blue, or plum-colored dresses with full aprons, and the young men wore black trousers and white shirts with beige suspenders and straw hats. Because they were all around the same age, they looked like multiples of each other . . . triplets and quadruplets.

Amelia was actually glad she had no camera and couldn’t be tempted to take pictures of the memorable scene . . . like something out of a movie.

At a signal unheard by Amelia, all the youth headed for the barn. Within minutes, she heard unison singing—the lower voices mingling with the clear sopranos. Amelia listened, wondering if she might recognize any of the songs.

Her mind wandered back to all the times she’d sat out on the front porch with her grandparents, hearing them recount their own childhood, so long ago, and the days when Papa was courting Grammy, taking her to tent revival meetings or out for ice cream at the old-timey drive-in where the root-beer floats were enormous no matter what size you ordered. Grammy’s eyes would light with tenderness as she spoke about the rush of excitement she’d felt when Papa first reached for her hand.

Amelia had never experienced such joy and longing with Byron or any of the young men she’d known in her circle of “serious music” friends and dates. Her own mother, being a private person, had never talked much about her dating years. Yet Amelia knew her mother truly loved her father—she’d been such a support to him since his diagnosis.

“Love bends with time,”
Mom had once said, though Amelia had not understood then.

Darkness began to settle, and she thought she saw a young doe standing on this side of the two-level barn. She slapped her neck, killing a mosquito, and wondered how many others she’d missed. The heat of the day faded as the songs rang out of the barn on the slight breeze.

And then she heard it, the first song she recognized: “Work, for the Night Is Coming.” Listening, she felt like joining in with her fiddle. What would it hurt?

Amelia got out on the driver’s side and removed the violin from its case in the backseat. Then she leaned against the car, playing a descant . . . enjoying herself as the moon appeared over the horizon. All around her, the sweet sounds of night joined in with the strains of the fiddle.

She lost herself in the music as the Amish young people sang through the verses. Playing louder now, Amelia closed her eyes as she moved back and forth, playing a harmony to each verse the teenagers sang in the barn.

The next song, “In the Sweet By and By,” brought tears to her eyes as she played along, thinking of all the years she had been blessed to know and love her darling Papa and Grammy. And she played for Byron, too, although he could not hear it—just as he’d never heard her heart. A melodious farewell to a plan that would never be realized.

When she opened her eyes at last, she was startled to see three young Amishmen standing near. When had they crept up? She stuttered and offered an apology for intruding.

“Oh no—you play so
gut
, we just wanted to hear ya better,” one said.

“Jah,” agreed another. “Why don’t you come join us at the Singing? Kumme . . .
schpiele
.”

Surprised, Amelia finally acquiesced, following them into the barn. She felt a little reluctant as she stood on the sidelines, glad there was no center stage here.

Someone blew into a pitch pipe, and the large group sitting at the tables began to sing “Shall We Gather at the River.” Then the same boys who’d wandered out to her car nodded for her to join in playing where she stood.

The rest of the evening was an absolute joy, with each gospel song sung faster and with more enthusiasm—even fervency. And at the end of each song the delightful teenagers clapped, apparently for her, although Amelia felt more like one of them than a soloist.

Soon, she was adding licks and runs at the end of phrases and pauses, cutting loose. Her lead-ins were as upbeat as when she fiddled with the Bittersweet Band. Oh, she felt as if she could play like this all night, bringing happiness to the fun-loving, smiling Amish young people around her.

Abruptly, the singing ceased. A stout Amishman in his forties appeared at the barn door, his arms at his side. “
Des Gesang es fix!”
Then, looking at Amelia, he said in English, “The Singing is finished . . . ’tis best you be goin’ on your way.”

Suddenly feeling disoriented, Amelia sheepishly looked at the group of singers that had encouraged her and wished she might acknowledge them with more than a mere glance. She opened her mouth to speak but felt the barrier of clashing culture. The shared music that had been their bond for those few songs was at an end.

She turned and saw that the man who’d called a halt to her mischief making, as he undoubtedly viewed her fiddle playing, had vacated the barn. With a final fond look back at the now silent young people, focused once more on one another, Amelia turned slowly and left the barn.

M
ichael at last had a chance to sit down and tell his mother what had transpired over at Joseph’s that evening. He knew his brother and sister-in-law were quite justified in thinking he was responsible for Elizabeth’s waywardness, at least initially. Yet, try as he might to right the situation now, there was little Michael could do without Elizabeth’s help.

And if all that wasn’t enough, Bishop John’s wife, Mary Stoltzfus Beiler, dropped in to see Michael’s mother around eight-thirty that night, saying one of the preachers down yonder had caught a young Englischer playing a fiddle at a barn Singing, turning it into a hoedown. “Can ya just imagine?” Mary said.

Michael clenched his jaw, hoping it wasn’t Amelia. But who else played the fiddle round here?

The more Mary went on about it, the more he feared Amelia was about to be labeled
der Zwieschpalt—
the troublemaker—unbeknownst to her.

Michael waited till the bishop’s wife left before hitching up the horse and carriage yet again, hurrying down to see if Amelia’s car was parked at Joanna’s or not.

As he steered the horse into the driveway, he saw Amelia getting out of her car, fiddle case in hand. “Amelia,” he called. “It’s Michael.” He leaped out of the buggy and hurried to catch up with her.

“I thought you might be with Elizabeth.” She seemed surprised to see him.

“I was . . . took her to see her parents a bit ago.” He didn’t say he’d hoped to see Amelia, too.

She looked down at her fiddle case. “I’m afraid I may have caused a big problem.”

“I heard about the fiddling.”

She stared at him, aghast. “You
heard
. Already?”

Michael laughed. “It’s nothing, Amelia. It’s just—”

“I’ve embarrassed you. I’m so sorry.”

He frowned. “Embarrass me? I’m not even baptized. If you think they’re upset with you, how do you think they feel about me?”

She looked at him for a moment. “Yeah, I see what you mean, but still . . .”

“Hey, have you ever wanted to know what it’s like to ride in an Amish buggy?” He chuckled with nerves. “Why don’t ya come riding with me?”

“I probably shouldn’t, Michael.” She looked back at his horse and enclosed carriage. “I was asked to leave by one of the preachers.”

“Who said that?”

“I was shown the door . . . by one of the ministers, I’m sure of it.”

“Well, it’s not like you were going to stay forever, Amelia. That preacher will get over it. And the ministerial brethren here in Hickory Hollow can’t be any more frustrated with me than they already are.”

Then he motioned toward the buggy, and she followed him, still carrying her fiddle case.

He helped her up, waiting till she was seated before going around to the driver’s side on the right. She propped up the case against the dashboard and was surprisingly quiet while he turned the horse back onto the road.

Soon, they were heading east on Hickory Lane, in the direction of a very large moon. And at least a trillion stars dotted the dark sky. Michael couldn’t have planned a more ideal evening, a perfect night for a spin in the carriage with your sweetheart-girl. Except that Amelia was an Englischer and already seeing someone else.

Michael pushed away the thought. He was very aware of Amelia’s presence . . . her cologne, lightly sweet, akin to the scent of honeysuckle and lilac blended. It took some doing to keep his eyes on the road and his hands on the reins.

“I might as well tell you more about what happened tonight,” she said at last, breaking the stillness. “I tried to locate the barn Singing, just to listen in . . . and I ended up playing my fiddle out by my car. I was just so caught up in the music!” She shook her head as if with regret. “Anyway, one thing led to another and, at the urging of several Amish guys, I went inside the barn to play along with their songs. They asked me to—I never would have been so bold otherwise.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” he said, looking at her again. “I believe you, Amelia.”

He listened to her describe her joy at entering into the young people’s music, the interplay between their voices and her own fiddling. He wished he might’ve heard it for himself.

But then, just as quickly, the joy fell out of her voice. “And then a man appeared at the barn door, out of nowhere, and I heard whispers from the young people—‘oh, no, it’s the preacher.’ He brought a quick end to things.” She paused and touched the fiddle case. “It’s definitely time I left for home.”

“When?”

“Early tomorrow.”

He knew it wouldn’t be sensible to let on how sorry he was to hear it. “Well, I hope you’ve had a
gut
time, other than this evening.” He didn’t want to belabor Amelia’s encounter with the minister, though the man was right to stop the fiddling—he had rules to uphold. Even so, Michael could easily imagine the unexpected enjoyment Amelia’s playing had given the young people, if only for a short time.

“It’s been terrific visiting here,” Amelia said. “Thanks for introducing me to your friends and family, as well.”

“Elizabeth really wanted to see ya today,” he let her know.
If only time might slow down!

“Please, will you tell her I wish her all the best?”

He nodded, managing a smile. “Sure.”

The awkward silence grew long as they rode under the shelter of night. Michael kept thinking he should make these final moments count for something, but what else could he say that he hadn’t already? He recalled their idyllic time together in the cabin, the way they’d effortlessly connected despite their very different backgrounds. Had it meant as much to her as it had to him?

“We’re heading in the wrong direction, aren’t we?” she said at last.

He looked at her now. “You’re right, of course.” He turned his attention to the road again. “I guess I’d hoped . . .”

“What, Michael?” Her voice sounded eager, but perhaps that was just wishful thinking on his part.

Should he say what was on his mind? Would it put her in an uncomfortable spot? She was leaving tomorrow, for pity’s sake! Looking her way again, Michael noticed her hands, so lovely and smooth. “Amelia,” he said softly.
She’s everything I care about in a girl.
But he didn’t dare say that. Instead, he settled on, “I guess I was hoping you’d stay longer.”

She was quiet.

“I know you have a music schedule to keep, and there’s really no place to practice here.”

She touched his arm briefly. “Michael, I would love to stay longer, but that’s impossible. Besides, you’re right . . . I need to be more focused on my music.”

It was all he could do not to reach for her hand. “I’ll turn around just up the road, if you’re ready to head back.”

“I am, thanks.” There was a catch in her voice.

There was no point in dragging this good-bye out for either of them, Michael knew. Truth was, Amelia had come to visit Amish country, and now she wanted to return to her English world.

Where she belongs,
he thought miserably.