The Shunning (17 page)

T
he air was icy and sweet on Monday morning as Katie hung out the wash. She thought how much more pleasant it would be doing the same chore with Nancy Beiler, the bishop’s eldest daughter, at her side. It was difficult to believe that three days from now, she would be saying her wedding vows. The hours seemed to be speeding by like wild horses, much too fast.

“Be sure and lock up the house when we go,” Rebecca told Katie before leaving with Samuel to tend to some business at the bank.

Katie puzzled over her mother’s strange request. Here in Hickory Hollow, folks had never felt the need to do such a thing. Nevertheless, she went around and locked the front and back doors, waiting until her parents were out of sight and Eli and Benjamin were off to a cattle sale before going to the hayloft. It was time to make good her confession promise to the bishop.

The smell of hay filled the drafty haymow, and although she was momentarily tempted to play the instrument of evil when she found it, Katie kept the guitar case securely closed and tucked it under her arm. Surefooted, she made her way down the long wooden ladder to the lower level, where the cows came in for milking and the horses and Satin Boy were stabled and fed. Her pony whinnied playfully, but she didn’t take the time to go over and caress his beautiful long neck.

Nor did she allow her thoughts to wander from her original purpose. Resolutely, she headed for the house. Once inside, she opened the round grate on the top of the woodstove, almost succumbing to the reckless impulse to burn the guitar and get it over with—once and for all. But when she lay the case out on the table and unsnapped both sides, she hesitated. If she opened the lid and so much as
looked
at Dan’s old guitar, her promise to the bishop might wither and turn to ash—much like the kindling consumed by these flames.

But what could she do to rid herself of this wickedness without forever reliving the heart-wrenching memory of the final, destructive act, carried out by her own hands?

There was always the cemetery. . . .

The notion startled her at first, but it was an option. A simple wooden grave marker designated the empty spot in the earth, making note of the fact that Daniel Fisher had drowned on his nineteenth birthday. Why not bury the guitar there?

But it was faulty reasoning, and she knew it. The ground was much too frozen now.

Katie snapped the guitar case securely shut and carried it downstairs to the cold cellar, uncertain of her next move. Had Bishop John meant for her to do away with the guitar completely? She tried to remember his exact words at her confessing. But the more she tried, the more difficult it was to believe that such a kindhearted man would have insisted on destroying a lovely, well-crafted instrument. Surely, it would be no problem to merely put it out of sight somewhere. The idea was appealing.

She knew she was grasping at straws, though, rationalizing away the bishop’s actual words as she crept past the rows of canned goods in her mother’s tall storage cupboards. Undaunted, she hurried through the narrow passageway to the darkest part of the cellar, where Dat had stored her former dowry furniture. Because it was dark, she backtracked, locating the flashlight Rebecca always stored in the bottom right-hand cupboard in front of several old tablecloths used for summer picnics.

She pressed the button, and the area ahead sprang to life. Katie aimed the beam toward the corner cupboard in the depths of the cellar and wondered what it would be like to flick a switch and bathe a room in light. The reckless thought was momentary, for her gaze fastened on the lovely piece her father had made for her. She forced down the lump that tried to form in her throat and clung to the guitar, staring at the dowry furniture that might have been hers. And all the wondrous, innocent love it represented.

With guitar in hand, she decided the tip-top of the corner cupboard was a good choice for the hiding place. She propped up the flashlight on the floor, shining it toward the cupboard, and pulled over an old water bucket to stand on, steadying herself as she hoisted the guitar case high overhead. When it was close enough to the edge of the cupboard top to slide it back and out of sight, she bumped into something.

“What’s up there?” she said aloud, determined to accomplish the deed before anyone caught her in another act of disobedience. Carefully, she hefted the guitar case down and retrieved the flashlight, shining it high to reveal a wooden baby cradle. She thought it amusing that her mother had stored the baby bed in the exact spot—the same dark, out-of-the-way place—that she had planned to conceal her forbidden guitar.

Katie stood on the bucket again and reached for the cradle. When she did, something rolled out and fell to the floor, smashing into pieces around her.

“
Himmel!
” Annoyed, she got down and turned to investigate. There, in a beam of artificial light, lay an infant’s dress covered with shards of white milk glass. Had the dress been stuffed into the vase somehow?

Startled by the thought, Katie leaned down and picked up the garment and gently shook away the splinters of glass from its satiny folds. Then she held the flashlight closer, completely amazed. This baby dress was strikingly similar to the one she had found in the attic.

Driven by an urgency to know the truth, to be absolutely sure, she checked the back facing. The name stitched there was “Katherine Mayfield.”

It appeared that someone had purposely hidden the dress. But why? She fought back unanswered questions.

Quickly, she made her way through the dim cellar to the steep steps, climbed them, and snatched up a broom and dustpan from the utility room. She felt herself becoming frantic, her pulse racing as she surveyed the side yard for any signs of her brothers, who sometimes returned home to get something they’d forgotten. When she saw that no one was coming, she flew back down the steps to sweep up and discard the broken fragments of glass.

Moments later, she rushed over to the Dawdi Haus next door and deposited the guitar in a crawl space. The instrument would be safe there, far from the eyes of Bishop John. And Dat.

Back in the main house, she sat down in the front room unashamed. The deed was done—a deceitful act—yet she felt absolutely no remorse. Why should she . . . when someone in her family was being dishonest with her? Still, did another’s sin justify her own? She dismissed the annoying thought.

The fact remained—Katherine Mayfield’s infant gown had been moved on purpose. Sadly, Katie suspected her mother. She was so certain of her supposition that, if necessary, she was prepared to confront Rebecca with the evidence.

Rather than indulge herself in a mountain of misery, Katie set to work cleaning the oil lamps in the house, all of them. She struggled with her emotions, asking herself how her Mam could have possibly lied to her.

She thought about last Wednesday morning, when she had inquired about the baby dress after a second look in the attic had turned up no clues. What had Mam said? Something about everything being “a bit of a blur”? Was it that she truly could not remember? Or was she simply avoiding the issue entirely?

Katie had dismissed her mother’s response as proof of her innocence. But now? Now everything seemed to be pointing to trickery. Why?

To keep her mind occupied, Katie set about making two green tomato pies and a pot of vegetable soup for lunch. But she found herself rushing to the kitchen door and peering out every time she heard a horse and buggy on the road. She continued to busy herself, hoping her parents might return in time to share the noon meal with her.

When they hadn’t arrived by eleven-thirty, she went to the front room and sat in her mother’s hickory rocker, twiddling her thumbs and staring at the lovely baby garment in her lap. The minutes seemed to creep by, taunting her. She examined the workmanship, the seams, the stitching—and came to the conclusion that the gown had not been purchased in a store but rather was homemade, with the aid of an electric sewing machine.

When Mam and Dat failed to appear, Katie went outside to check the clothes on the line. They were still a bit damp, so she left them hanging in the pale sunlight and went back inside.

Still restless, she carried the little dress with her each time she darted to the kitchen to look at the day clock—ten times in fifteen minutes—pacing back and forth between the two rooms. What was keeping them?

Things just didn’t add up. But no matter how long it took or what measures she had to resort to, Katie planned to move heaven and earth to discover the truth. Beginning the minute her parents arrived home.

————

The lobby of the bank was crowded; the line seemed longer than usual for a Monday morning, Rebecca thought. But she waited patiently with the other patrons, most of them Englishers, although there were a few Mennonites and other Plain folk. None, however, that she recognized.

When she finally reached the head of the line and the next available teller’s number appeared in red dotted numerals on the counter screen, Rebecca hurried to booth five and set her wicker basket down in front of her. Hastily, she filled out the withdrawal form, while the woman in the open booth waited.

“I want to close out this account.” Rebecca pushed the bank slip in the direction of polished red fingernails. “And I’d like the balance made out to Katie Lapp—in a money order, if ya don’t mind.”

The owner of the red nails nodded and promptly left to carry out the transaction.

Later, when Rebecca met up with Samuel at the designated street corner, she walked beside him in silence, ignoring the stares of the people whizzing by in their fast cars. The notion that one of those people might be Katie’s natural mother was horrifying. Instinctively, Rebecca moved closer to Samuel’s side, wondering if that woman— that Laura Mayfield-Bennett—was out there somewhere right now— observing her, watching her every move, in the hope that Rebecca would lead her to the child she had loved for so long but had never known. . . .

Once she was safely bundled into the carriage, sitting to Samuel’s left, Rebecca felt protected. Their familiar rig, pulled by old Molasses, stood as a shield against the modern English world.

“Did you get the dowry money for Katie, then?” Samuel asked, glancing at Rebecca.

“Jah, I have it.”

“Wouldn’t it be right nice to give it to her tonight at supper? That way Eli and Benjamin can be in on the celebrating.”

Rebecca rallied somewhat at the prospect of a festive evening, sitting a bit straighter as they headed through the traffic toward the Old Philadelphia Pike. “Jah, a gut idea. Won’t Katie be surprised, though?”

Samuel’s face broke into a wide grin, and Rebecca knew she must tell him about the letter right away. But she would break the news as gently as possible. “It’s a smart thing for Katie to be marrying the bishop this week.”

“He’s been waitin’ for her long enough now.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean for the bishop’s sake,” Rebecca corrected. “I meant because . . . well, because something’s come up.”

“What do you mean?”

She took a breath for courage. “Our dear Katie . . . ach, how can I put this?” She sighed, then began again. “Our daughter’s mother, her birth mother, is looking for her.”

Samuel jerked his head around so fast his hat nearly flew off. Rebecca could see his struggle for composure as he pushed it down on his head and resumed his questioning. “This can’t be. What’re you saying to me?”

Dear Lord God
, Rebecca prayed silently,
help me to speak the complete
truth
. She eyed her husband tentatively, then began to explain. “Ella Mae brought over a letter last Friday, before supper. It was signed, ‘Laura Mayfield-Bennett.”’

Samuel seemed thoroughly confused, and his brows beetled with an ominous frown. “Why on earth didn’t you tell me before?”

Rebecca did her best to fill in the details, and by the time they made the turn onto Hickory Lane, Samuel had the whole story as best she could recall it.

“So you’re saying that the young girl who gave Katie up is all growed up now and . . . she’s dyin’?”

The pain in Samuel’s voice ripped at Rebecca’s heart, but she suspected that he was equally concerned about not having been told sooner. She could see now that burning the letter had been a grave mistake, and that it had created a thorny distance between herself and her husband.

She sucked in some fresh air and held the raw cold inside her lungs for a moment, then let it out slowly. “I never gave it a second thought, honest I didn’t. I should’ve known how you’d be feelin’, though. I’m sorry, Samuel, so awful sorry.”

He nodded. “I see why you said what you did about gettin’ Katie married off. If she’d waited any longer, who knows what might have happened next?”

“Jah, who knows?” Rebecca was sick with worry that the stranger might just show up on their doorstep. Perhaps today, while she and Samuel were gone . . . too far away to protect their daughter.

Rebecca shivered and tried in vain to shake off the nagging fear.

————

Katie forced herself to sit calmly in the front room when the carriage turned into the lane and Dat stopped to let Mam out. It was almost impossible to remain seated as though nothing were wrong. But
everything
was wrong, and when the back door opened and she heard the clunk of her mother’s boots against the utility room floor, it was all she could do to keep from flying through the house.

“Katie?”

“I’m here, Mamma . . . coming.” She gripped the baby dress and stood, steeling herself, and made her way toward the kitchen.

Rebecca rushed to greet her with a great smile on her face, arms outstretched. “Oh, Katie, wait’ll Dat comes in. We have such a wonderful surprise for you.”

Katie held the little dress behind her back. “Can I have a word with you first?”

Her mother’s smile faded a little, and she touched Katie’s face, letting her hand linger there. “Child, what is it?”

“Mamma, I’m
not
a child. I’m a grown woman—about to be married.”

But her Mam seemed too preoccupied to hear and turned as Dat came huffing into the house. “Samuel, come,” she called to him.