Rebecca's Return (12 page)

M
rs. Richardson—Isabelle to those around town—lived down from the corner post office at the Wheat Ridge/Unity junction. She was sure she had just heard something hit her house with a thud. At eighty years of age, Isabelle doubted her hearing at times, but this had been pretty obvious. What made the sound even more suspicious, was the loud roar of an approaching automobile from the west, just prior to the sound. The roar sounded even louder afterward. Somebody was up to no good.

Isabelle lived by herself, thankful she still could and hoping things would continue so for many years to come. She dreaded the day she would have to go to a nursing home. Her two children, Wallace and Beatrice, had tactfully brought up the subject several times, but Isabelle had told them “no” before they barely started talking.

Wallace had only recently moved to Cincinnati with his wife and two children. He had grown tired of the local options for his private law practice after graduating from Michael E. Moritz College of Law at Ohio State University. Apparently his feelings about his own abilities had been justified because Wallace had been hired on by Frost & Jacobs, which had a lot of growth potential—according to Wallace at least. Isabelle didn’t know much about such things and judged Wallace’s financial matters primarily by the car he drove. It was definitely larger and better looking than last time he was home.

Beatrice, a deputy sheriff, still lived in West Union. She was married to her high school sweetheart, Andy, who never did or would amount to much in Isabelle’s thinking. Andy worked part-time as a mechanic at the Auto Sales place on 41. It was Beatrice who supported the family. Isabelle thought Beatrice might even make sheriff someday, but that was not a subject to bring up with Beatrice when Andy was present.

Concerned by the sound she had heard, Isabelle walked to her front window and looked out. There was nothing to see. The night was clear but not too cold for this time of the year—chilly enough, though, to require a sweater if she stepped outside. That and the doubt that there really was something serious going on outside made Isabelle hesitate.

If whoever was in the car had actually thrown something against her house, then it could well wait till morning to be discovered. She would report it then. If they hadn’t, she would be calling the sheriff’s department for nothing.

Isabelle was concerned that Beatrice might be on duty tonight. Even if Beatrice wasn’t, someone would tell her about the call and subsequent visit required by a deputy, how her mother had called in about nothing, imagining things being thrown against her house just because a car went by too fast.

Such a report would not bode well when the subject of the nursing home came up again.
Mom’s hearing things,
Isabelle could imagine Beatrice telling Wallace.
Had to run a patrol out to satisfy her—all for nothing.

No,
Isabelle decided. It was time for bed, bump or no bump in the night. Yet stepping back from the window, the feeling of concern wouldn’t go away. An impulse compelled her to simply check outside. Surely she could do that.

Hesitating, she thought the matter over carefully, finally gave in, reached for a sweater, and slipped it on. Her shoulders ached with even that slight effort.
No sense in doing this at such an hour,
she told herself, but she continued on anyway and opened the front door.

With no streetlights to help, there was little that could be seen. What light came from her living room window cast its reach only a few feet into the front lawn. Looking up and then down the dark street, Isabelle could see nothing unusual, certainly no signs of lurking pranksters or automobiles that shouldn’t have been there. Checking her front yard and the sides of the house, nothing seemed to be amiss there either. Yet something had hit her house, the feeling more than the memory told her so.

Glancing up, while standing there on the front porch, she saw lights playing on the horizon, coming from the east, bouncing along Wheat Ridge, and heading into town.
This might help,
she thought.
Maybe I can see by the light.

Waiting, she closed the front door behind her, checking the knob and making certain it was unlocked. Getting locked out of her own house wouldn’t be good news either when Beatrice and Wallace had their next discussion.

The car was coming down the hill fast, slowing only slightly as it entered the little town.
Surely not the same boys
c
oming back to do further damage.
Standing outside on her front porch, she was a handy target. Fear filled Isabelle, but she didn’t dare move now. That might only invite further trouble, if whoever this was saw her dashing into her house, perhaps falling down on her own front porch.

Isabelle held still, after moving to stand close to the wall of the house. The headlights streamed down Wheat Ridge, lighting up her front yard. Her fear made her forget why she was out on the porch. Then the car passed, its lights dimly reflecting back. Suddenly remembering, Isabelle looked to see what might have been thrown into her yard.

Little could be seen, but Isabelle was sure she saw something. A large object or at least a large bag was lying against the far wall of the house, near the corner facing Mr. Urchin’s yard.

Everyone called him Bill, a nice enough fellow. He lived there with his wife, Eunice. Their children, like hers, were long grown and gone. He would see the bag come morning, Mr. Urchin would. Bill would be up early, walking over to see what the object was, knocking on her door for an explanation. An explanation she wouldn’t have.

Sighing, the last of the light from the passing car’s headlights disappearing down Wheat Ridge, she opened her front door, stepped back inside, and headed toward the phone. There really seemed to be no other option. Calling it in might be problematic with Beatrice, but not calling it in could cause problems at the hand of Mr. Urchin. Added to that was a feeling Isabelle couldn’t quite shake. Something about the shape of the object against her house, seen so dimly in the car’s light, troubled her.

She reached for the phone on the wall. Wallace had wanted to have a cordless model installed the last time the nursing home subject came up, but she would have nothing of that either. It smelled of coming doom, especially when Wallace had told her, “What if you fall down—the stairs maybe—a cordless phone might be closer. Now you have to reach all the way up the wall. That might be hard to do depending what happens.”

“No,” she had said. And “no,” it would remain.
Anything to stave off this approaching dread in whatever manner possible.

Holding up the phone, its large numbers lighted, she dialed the number by heart. Sally, the night receptionist, answered, “Adams County Sheriff.”

Isabelle cleared her throat, wishing all this wasn’t necessary. “Ah, Sally,” she half whispered, “I think something—a little bit ago—was thrown against my house. Sorry to bother you, but could you have someone drive by?”

“Any idea who it was?” Sally’s voice sounded clipped.

“No,” Isabelle replied, wishing again she was not making this phone call. Sally sounded just like Isabelle figured she would when a call came in from an old woman. So Isabelle added quickly, “Could you keep this from Beatrice? Maybe it’s nothing…But it made a loud noise.”

“Have you checked outside?” Sally asked, ignoring the question about Beatrice.

“Yes—I stepped outside the front door. There’s something there.”

“I’ll send someone out, okay?” Sally responded, her voice not as clipped anymore. “We’ll see what it is.”

“Could you keep this from Beatrice?” Isabelle asked again, her voice strained.

“I can’t promise, Isabelle,” Sally said. “Beatrice’s on call tonight, and the deputy nearest you is the one that stops by.”

“Okay,” Isabelle said in resignation. The world tonight seemed to be working against her. The walls of the nursing home were moving in closer. She could feel it all for sure.

“Lord, help me,” she whispered, hanging the phone on the wall, reaching for her childhood faith in God. “You will have to help me. This may be a bigger cross than I can carry. Maybe You can take me home before they carry me to that place.”

Struggling with her emotions, she walked into the living room to wait.

In town Sally pressed the mike down. “Base one to mobile units. Possible disturbance reported in Unity. Anyone in the area?”

“I’m near Manchester, down by the river.” The voice of young Tad Johnson, only on the force for a year, came back quickly.

“Beatrice, where’re you at?” Sally asked into the mike, waiting for a response.

When there was silence, Tad asked, “You want me to run up?”

“Just a minute,” Sally told him. “It’s her mom. Might be best if she goes in.”

“The old woman in trouble?” Tad asked, concern in his voice.

“Sounded fine, but thinks someone threw something against her house.”

“Any other reports from the area?” Tad asked the logical question.

Sally didn’t answer him, broadcasting more specifically this time, “Base one to mobile three. Base one to mobile three. Respond please.”

“Yes, Sally.” Beatrice’s voice came through faintly, the static buzzing.

“Where’re you at?” Sally asked. “You’re not coming through clearly.”

“South of Cherry Fork,” Beatrice replied, her voice clearer this time. “Radio might be making trouble.”

“Your mom called. Can you check it out? Thinks someone threw something against the house.”

“Sure. You don’t think she’s imagining things?”

“That’s why you’d better go,” Sally said. “Tad’s not as close either.”

“On my way.”

“Have Charley check the radio tomorrow.” Sally clicked her mike off.

“Will leave a note on the dash when I come back in.” The transmission sounded weaker again.

“You have your cell if it gives out?” Sally asked.

“I do. I’m on 247 right now. Will let you know.”

There was silence from the station as Beatrice drove north on the state road, wondering whether the radio had given out but deciding it likely had not. Sally kept her words to a minimum, calling only when necessary.

So what is Mother up to?
Beatrice wondered
. Is she seeing things?
It appeared as if she and Wallace might be right about the nursing home. Having an eighty-year-old woman living by herself, even in town, was no longer acceptable, if she was acting like this.

This will certainly make the case easier with Wallace. If Mother is seeing things, imagining objects being thrown against her house in the night, then it is time Wallace and I take action. Now we will have solid reasons to back up our feelings. The sheriff department’s time can simply not be spent on imaginary things.

Beatrice rattled across the Harshville Bridge, the clatter irritating her.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

I
saac Miller had retired to the living room already, studying the Scripture texts the bishop supplied at last preaching Sunday. This weekend might well be his turn to preach, although one could never be quite sure. There was a normal rotation for preaching, but it could easily be changed with a visiting preacher who always got priority.

Not that Isaac cared one way or the other. Preaching was a light burden to him, but one was not wise to mention such things. Common Amish belief required preachers to walk in humility, suppressing natural talent lest it spoil the man. Everyone knew in theory that God could work just as well through the most stumbling sermon as through the well-delivered one. But in practice the people enjoyed the latter ones better—but that too was not something to dwell on. One’s soul, it was widely believed, could quickly be damaged with such prideful thoughts.

So Isaac studied the texts to be used that Sunday. They came from Mark, chapter eleven and Luke, chapter eighteen. His eyes caught on verses twenty-five and twenty-six in the book of Mark. He read them in German to get the full meaning and to memorize them, should they need quoting and if preaching fell to him.