Part 14 (1/2)
He picks at a loose straw on his hat. ”The funerals are this afternoon.”
”I'll be there.”
When he looks up from his hat, I'm surprised to see a flash of something ugly. It's so incongruous with everything I know about the Amish culture that I'm taken aback.
”Mattie told me the buggy accident wasn't an accident,” he says.
Only then do I identify the emotion I see in his eyes as rage. He's ent.i.tled, but it's not a good fit. I choose my words carefully because the last thing I want to do is fan the flames. ”I don't know that for a fact, but it's something we're looking into.” I hold his gaze, trying to get a feel for his frame of mind. ”Do you know something about that, Mr. Erb?”
”Paul was a deacon,” he tells me.
”I'm aware of that.”
”Mattie sent me here. To speak with you. She reminded me that Enos Wengerd was excommunicated a few weeks ago. She thought I should let you know about it.”
I don't know Wengerd personally; our paths never crossed when I was Amish, and I've never had cause to speak to him since I've been back. But I keep my thumb on the Amish grapevine. I know he has a reputation for being Amish when it's convenient and breaking the rules when it suits him. He raises sheep on a small farm between Painters Mill and Millersburg.
I open my desk drawer and remove a pad of paper. ”Do you know why he was excommunicated?”
”He bought a truck. He attended Mennischt church services. Er is en maulgrischt.” He is a pretend Christian.
The mention of his buying a truck makes my antennae go up. ”Do you think his being excommunicated is somehow related to what happened to Paul and the children?”
Erb leans forward, his expression intensifying. ”When I went to the horse auction in Millersburg last weekend, I saw him arguing with Paul. Der siffer hot zu viel geleppert.” The drunkard had sipped too much.
”Wengerd was drinking alcohol?”
”Ja.”
”What were they arguing about?”
”I don't know, but Enos was in a state. He was angry about being placed under the bann. His family would no longer take meals with him. His parents refused to let him into their home. He blamed Paul when it was his own doing.”
”Do you know what kind of truck he purchased?”
He shakes his head. ”I don't know anything about English vehicles.”
”Did Enos threaten Paul?”
”I do not know.”
”Did the confrontation get physical?”
”Not that I saw.”
”Did anyone else witness the argument?” I ask.
”I don't know. They were out where they park the buggies.” He looks down at his hat. ”I wish I had done something. Talked to them.”
”I'll talk to Enos,” I tell him.
Andy rises with the arthritic slowness of a man twice his age and I know the anguish of the last two days has taken a toll.
”Thanks for bringing this to my attention, Mr. Erb.”
He leaves without responding.
It's too early for an official visit from the police department-even for the Amish, who rise early-so I decide to swing by my brother's farm before talking to Enos Wengerd. It's been months since I spoke to Jacob, and like so many visits in the past, I suspect it's going to be tense at best, unpleasant if I want to be honest about it. Jacob and I excel at both.
The old farm had once been owned by my parents and was pa.s.sed down to Jacob-the eldest male child-after the death of our mother three years ago. I drive by the place several times a week when I'm on patrol. Every time, I envision myself stopping in to say h.e.l.lo to Jacob or sharing a cup of coffee with my sister-in-law, Irene. I envision myself getting to know my two young nephews, becoming part of their lives. But I always find an excuse to keep going.
When we were kids, Jacob, Sarah, and I were tight. We worked as much as we played and somehow we always managed to have fun. Jacob and I were particularly close. He was my big brother and I looked up to him the way only a little sister can. He could run faster, throw farther, and jump higher than anyone else in the world. If an Amish girl could have had a superhero, Jacob was mine. I could always count on him to watch my back, even if whatever trouble I'd found was my own doing, which was often the case. All of that changed when I was fourteen years old and Daniel Lapp came into our house and introduced me to the dark side of human nature. All of us lost our innocence that day.
I pull into the long gravel lane and speed toward the old farmhouse, white dust billowing in my wake. I steel myself against the familiarity of the place, but the memories encroach. To my right lies the apple orchard planted by my grandfather over fifty years ago, a place where Jacob, Sarah, and I spent many an afternoon picking McIntosh apples to sell at the fruit stand down the road. I see the cherry tree upon which Sarah and Jacob and I gorged ourselves every summer. The sapling maple tree I helped my datt plant is now tall enough to shade the house.
I pa.s.s by the house and the chicken coop looms into view. Jacob has replaced the wire and added a few concrete blocks at the base, probably to keep out the foxes and coyotes that roam the area at night. When I was a kid, caring for the chickens was my responsibility. I'd spend twenty minutes collecting eggs, changing the water, feeding, and raking the s.h.i.+t into an old dustpan for the compost pile. On a freezing January morning when I was eight years old, I came out to find feathers everywhere and all twenty chickens dead. It horrified me to realize I'd left the gate open and an animal had gotten into the coop during the night and torn them to shreds. It was a silly thing, but I'd become attached to the chickens. I had even named them. Frivolous, English names like Lulu and Bella and Madonna. When I saw what had been done to them I ran to the house, crying. My datt came out to a.s.sess the damage and quietly informed me, ”A lazy sheep thinks its wool is heavy.” I knew what that meant and the words devastated me. It was his way of telling me I was lazy and all of those pretty hens were dead because of me. He bought more chickens at the auction the following weekend, only this time he a.s.signed their care to my sister. I wasn't allowed near the coop.
Jacob is married to a nice Amish woman by the name of Irene, who's little more than a stranger to me. She bore him two sons-Elam and James-who are six and seven years old, respectively. It pains me deeply that my nephews are strangers, too. I hate it that I don't know my sister-in-law. That I've never laughed with her or helped her in the kitchen or listened while she grumbled about her husband. What I hate most is the chasm that exists between me and my brother. Not for the first time, I think of all the things Daniel Lapp stole from me that day. What he stole from all of us. And I hate him for it.
I park near the sidewalk between the gravel parking area and the back of the house and shut down the engine. I don't want to go inside. I don't want to speak to Irene or even my brother, actually. I don't want to see my nephews because I know it will only remind me how much I've let slip by and how little I've done to rectify it.
”Katie?”
I turn to see Jacob coming up the sidewalk from the barn. For an instant, he looks like the brother I so admired all those years ago. A tall boy with a quick grin, a protective nature, and muscles I longed to possess myself. In that instant, I want to launch myself at him, throw my arms around him, tell him I've missed him, and beg him to love me the way he used to because I need him in my life.
Instead, I stand there and wait for him to reach me. Like all married Amish men, he wears a full beard. There's more gray threaded through it than the last time I saw him. He's wearing gray work trousers. A blue work s.h.i.+rt with black suspenders. Work boots. And a straw, flat-brimmed hat.
He stops a few feet away from me. ”What are you doing here?”
I had almost expected him to greet me with a smile or good morning or a how-are-you. Instead, his eyes are hard and he's looking at me as if I'm the tax man with my hand reaching for his mason jar.
”We have a problem,” I tell him. ”Do you have a few minutes?”
I hear a noise behind me and turn to see my sister-in-law, Irene, standing on the back porch, shaking the dust from a rug. She makes eye contact with me and nods, but she doesn't look happy to see me and makes no move to come over to greet me. I know my nephews won't be coming out to bid their Englischer auntie h.e.l.lo. It isn't the first time the Amish have let me know I'm a bad influence on their young.
”Has something happened?” he asks.
I didn't expect him to invite me inside for coffee and pie. I don't want to go inside, especially considering the conversation we're about to have. Still, it hurts.
”They found Daniel Lapp's bones,” I tell him. ”In the grain elevator down in Coshocton County.”
Jacob is a stoic man. Even as a boy he rarely displayed his emotions. But some responses are too powerful to contain, and I see a ripple of shock go through his body.
”Are you sure?” he asks.
”I'm sure.”
He looks toward the barn, then back at me. ”It's Daniel Lapp?”