Rebecca's Return (17 page)

His eyes refused to raise or meet hers.

“Look at me, Andy,” she demanded. “Tell me the truth.”

“I hit a
deer,
” he repeated, cautiously looking up. His blue eyes looked glazed, and he dropped them again.

She thought for a moment and came to a conclusion. “Andy, I want you out of the house. I want you to leave now.”

There was fear in his eyes now. “For hitting a deer?”

“For hitting a buggy…For leaving the scene of the accident like the coward you are…and for whatever other reasons I don’t know about. Another woman, perhaps?”

He flinched, and she saw it.

“Thought you could get away with it?” she continued, slamming her purse down on the kitchen table. “Start packing—now.” Leaving him sitting there, she headed for the bedroom. Then it occurred to her that Andy would need access to the bedroom to pack. And sure enough, she heard the bedroom door open slowly.

“You have ten minutes,” she said.

“I don’t need that long,” he said resolutely.

“You have ten minutes,” she repeated. “Pack and then go. I’ll be in the bathroom. Be gone by the time I’m out.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m guilty of what you said. Everything but one. I wasn’t with a woman.”

“So you hit the buggy?”

“I hit one of the holy people,” he said, his hands trembling.

“You hit one of them.”

“Did he die?” he asked, his lips barely moving.

There was no doubting the sincerity of his concern, and it kept her from moving toward the bathroom door. “No. He’ll live. What happened?”

He clasped his hands, relief evident on his face that she was still listening. “I wasn’t paying attention, I guess. Saw some lights. It happened so fast. Just a loud bang and the horse running in my headlights. I couldn’t stay there. I just couldn’t. I was sure he was dead, and God was going to judge me with fire from heaven. If not, your mother would. It was in front of her house.”

“You saw the injured man?”

He shook his head. “But he had to be around somewhere. Someone had to be—it was a buggy.”

“I see.” She felt her resolve leaking away, compassion for Andy stirring. “There was no woman?” She hoped the desperation wasn’t showing in her voice.

He shook his head, not seeming to notice. “No. Just a very stupid thing to do.”

Beatrice took a deep breath, uncertain what to do with the emotions she was feeling. “I’ll tell you what,” she finally concluded, “go down to the station. Sally’s still there, I’m sure. Give her your statement. Be sure it’s a full and detailed one. Don’t try lying.”

His hands were trembling again, but his eyes were raised to her face.

She continued, “Tell Sally that Mike Richards from state handled the scene. She’ll know how to get the information to him.”

He nodded his head, then left. As simple as that, she thought. But was he going to the station? She heard his truck starting up.

Pacing the bedroom floor, she realized she had to know. Picking up the phone, she dialed the number and waited for someone to answer it. “Sally,” she said.

“Yes…Beatrice.”

“Andy’s supposed to be on his way there. Call me and tell me what he told you when he’s done. Right away. It’s about the accident tonight.”

“Oh, Beatrice,” Sally gasped, “not Andy?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Want to tell me more?”

“No. Let’s see what he says.”

“Okay. Will let you know.”

“Call me in ten minutes if he’s not there.”

“Nasty deal, huh?”

“You could say so.”

Beatrice paced the floor to calm down, then got ready for what was left of the night’s sleep. Still there was no return phone call. So far, so good. She was wondering why she hadn’t stuck to her plans of forcing Andy to leave when the phone rang.

“Yes,” she said, lifting the receiver.

“He told me everything,” Sally said, without saying hello.

“Read it to me.”

Sally sighed and said, “You should trust him a bit. He’s a nice man.”

“Just read it,” Beatrice snapped.

The reading of Andy’s statement took five minutes, and when Sally was done, she asked, “Was that what he told you?”

“Yes.”

“So he’s not lying.”

“No.”

“Then you have a good night’s sleep. Take care of that man—will you?”

“I’ll try,” she said.

A few minutes later, she heard the sound of Andy’s Ford in the driveway. The bedroom door opened soon afterwards.

Andy stopped halfway across the floor. “Can I stay?”

“I suppose,” she said, still not certain why. The confession had taken courage, something Andy hadn’t displayed too often in his life.

Andy cemented her decision by saying, “I want to talk to the holy people in the morning. The one I hit. I want to apologize and pay for the damage.”

“He’s in the hospital,” she said. “The state will charge you.”

“I know,” he said quietly, but his hands weren’t trembling anymore. “I want to make it right. The insurance will cover the damage—the hospital bill.”

“You have it paid up?” she asked, knowing his weakness.

“Yes.”

“Andy, you can’t talk to the victim. It doesn’t usually turn out well. And it’s against department policy.”

“But I need to do this, Bea. Help me make things right.”

Beatrice looked at Andy. In some ways he was like a child. But his desire to make this right was a step toward being a man. “I could lose my job for this, but I’ll talk to the father of the victim and see what I can do. But I can’t promise anything. If he doesn’t want to talk to you, there’s nothing I can do.”

“That’s all I ask,” Andy said. He then approached Beatrice and offered himself for an embrace.

She slowly extended her arms and wrapped them around him and repeated, “I’ll do what I can.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE

R
ebecca woke with the alarm clock, a sleepy fog on her brain. She reached out to shut off the racket, frustrated that it had taken such a noise to awaken her on her first full day home. She ought to be fresh and enthused to be here, not needing help to get up.

All night she had tossed and turned, trying to sleep. John’s anger had left her in a turmoil. The talk with her parents afterward had done little to resolve the situation. She was still surprised that last night had been so upsetting.

Rebecca had thought that when she arrived home, she’d have a fresh start, a new capacity to love John and to leave the memory of Atlee behind.

The memory of how John had acted rose before her. It was simply not right, the way he had talked to her. She had hoped by this morning things would be looking different, but now, if anything, it was looking worse.

Rebecca stared at the dark ceiling, wondering how things could have gotten so bad, so quickly.
Has John been like this all along? Have I just not noticed, or have I pushed him into something by my actions?

Guilt and worry played with Rebecca’s mind until she resolutely pushed them away. There was simply no way she was completely at fault. Maybe she had not done everything right, but she was trying, and such an outburst from John was simply over the edge.

Rebecca got up and lit the kerosene lamp. The glass chimney warmed in her hand once the wick was burning. The flame danced wildly, then calmed down within the safety of the glass. A last puff of black smoke rose from the top before the wick burned steady.

What about the upcoming Sunday evening? That was the evening she had promised to go into the details about Atlee.
Why did I promise John I would tell him everything?

From across the hall, she heard Matthew’s door open and his footsteps going down the stairs. He was doing real well, getting up on time, developing into a right good young man. She wished with all her heart she could say the same things about her own life.

Well,
Da Hah
would just have to help her. That was all there was to it. She certainly was in deeper than she could handle.

Sunday would come, and then she would have to face John. If John made too big a fuss, she would simply tell him the engagement was off, her heart missing a beat at the thought, sorrow filling her.

What would John do if she dared to take such a bold step? Declare her damaged material, spread word around the young people’s circle she had a Mennonite boyfriend hidden away somewhere?

That could be quite damaging. It could make her prospects of finding another boyfriend among the Amish slim. Not that she wanted to, she quickly told herself. Although she was filled with shame at the thought, she also took comfort remembering Emma’s happiness as a single Amish woman.

It was strange. Did John know that the very thing he feared, he was causing by his actions toward her? Hardly would he believe it.

Yet with all the emotions spinning in her heart, life must go on, and the chores were calling. She must not let Matthew do them all himself. He would think she was shirking her duty if she waited much longer, and this her first morning home.

The sounds of her mother stirring in the kitchen came up through the heat register as she slid it open. She smiled at the familiar sounds, letting the feelings of home soak in. How good it was to be home—so safe and secure, a place where things were as they should be, where others had made so many decisions for her, deciding what was right and wrong.

But she was grown up now. She would leave one day soon. Either as John’s wife…or not. The time was coming, no matter what she did to stop it. Marrying or not marrying John would involve entering another world, a world where responsibilities would rest squarely on her shoulders. Having been in Milroy with Stephen and Leona, she felt with acute freshness what that might all include. Feeling a recoiling against it, she paused before leaving her room, drinking up the sounds coming through her register.

“Home,” she whispered. “I don’t want to leave you. But I must. We can’t be children forever.”

Glad no one was around to hear her talking to herself, Rebecca found her way down the dark stairs, taking care not to trip.

She stuck her head in the kitchen, taking in a deep breath.

Mattie noticed her daughter, still disheveled from sleep, and asked, “Good to be home?”

“Yes.”

“Matthew will be glad for the help.”

“You need any help in here?”

“No.” her mother said.

“Don’t go all out on breakfast on account of me,” Rebecca said, suspecting her mother would anyway.

“It’s your first morning home.”

“I know, but you don’t have to.”

“Lester will love it,” Mattie said, shifting the blame as if that would help.

Rebecca smiled, knowing there was no persuading her mother. “Matthew’s wondering where I’m at,” she said, as she tugged on her coat and went out the door.

True to her suspicions, Matthew spoke up before she had even shut the barn door behind her. “Where’ve you been, sleepyhead? Did you get spoiled, sleeping in late in Milroy?”

“Oh, be quiet,” Rebecca said. What would he understand about the night she had just spent tossing in bed?

“Troubles, have we?” Matthew looked in Rebecca’s direction, his nearly twelve-year-old forehead wrinkled. He hardly paused to ask the question while shoveling feed for the soon incoming cows.

The thought that Matthew might have heard what was going on last night crossed Rebecca’s mind, along with a stab of fear. In that case there would be nothing like talking about dating troubles with a young brother. Matthew would never understand, nor was it any of his business. Rebecca wished she knew how much he knew before she said anything. Walking toward the milk house, Rebecca hoped that ignoring Matthew would work.

Seeing his sister return, Matthew spoke up knowingly, “Baby troubles in Milroy.”

His statement gave her relief and a new venue for conversation. Rebecca replied, “They always are.”

“That’s why I’m never having any,” he pronounced, swelling out his chest and acting like he might thump it. “That avoids all the troubles.”

“Huh! Babies aren’t the only cause of troubles.”

Matthew stated firmly, “But most of them happen because of babies.”

“I thought girls caused all the trouble,” Rebecca reminded him.

Matthew snorted in disgust. “They start it, but babies are the end.”

“So who told you that, wise guy?”

“Boys at school. We figured it out.”

Rebecca laughed. “Don’t you think it’s a little too soon?”

“Soon for what?” he asked confidently.

But she heard the edge of uncertainty in his voice. “You’ll get over it. All boys do,” she said in her best sisterly voice, while hanging the milkers on the wire.

“Good morning.” The cheerful voice of their father came through the barnyard door, cows crowding in as he opened it.

“Good morning,” she returned, not as cheerfully.

“It’s good to have you home,” Lester replied, whacking a slow cow on the behind with his hand.

The cow paid him no mind. Spotting the pile of feed Matthew had just shoveled out, the cow let out a low bellow, lurched forward, and stuck its head through the neck rods, tongue reaching out hungrily.