church.”
“I think we should go out there, Cal—go see what this is all about.”
“To Calmoutier?”
“Right. Now, if you’ve got time. But what about your letter, Cal? This Rachel Ramsayer?”
“That’s gonna have to wait.”
“What if she’s really your daughter?”
“I need time, Mike,” Cal said, shaking his head. “I’m not ready. Not after all these years.”
9
Friday, May 11 4:30 P.M.
MIKE BRANDEN and Cal Troyer drove northeast on State Route 241 to Mt. Hope and then took Mt. Hope Road north to Holmes County 229. At the intersection, there was a single Amish house and the large, open fields of adjoining Amish farms. To the north, the skies were clear, blue, untroubled. To the south there were thunderheads black with turmoil, and lightning flashed along the leading edge, as the storm lumbered toward the east.
Branden turned right onto 229 and followed Troyer’s directions east for several miles, past the old St. Genevieve Church, to a flat and straight stretch where two gravel driveways opposed one another on the two sides of the road. A right turn took them to the Enos Erb farm; a left would have taken them to the Israel Erb farm. At the entrance to the right driveway, Enos had posted a hand-lettered sign on a plywood board:
Beagle Pups—$8
Trained Rabbit Dogs—$17
Edging 229 and set close to the drive, there was a small red barn with a rusty sheet-metal roof. A slat fence surrounding it enclosed a herd of goats. Two billy goats were tethered outside the fence. Forty yards farther down the gravel lane stood the main house—two stories of white wood frame set on pale yellow foundation blocks, with a wide front porch and a green shingle roof. On the lawn between the big house and the driveway, a young boy and girl, dressed in denim blue and flat black, he in a little straw hat and she in a black bonnet, were playing on a sturdy wooden swing set with a green plastic slide. As the professor’s truck approached, the children stopped pumping their little legs and let the swings come to rest. They sat on the swing seats, watching the two English men carefully as Branden and Troyer climbed out of the truck.
Cal called out, “Hi, kids,” but they had no words for him. With blank faces, they watched him approach, apparently unwilling to speak either to him or to each other. Cal thought nothing of it, and Branden knew it was typical behavior. Amish children fall silent in the presence of adults, especially English ones.
There was a side door to the house, covered by a slanting roof of green corrugated plastic. Troyer knocked on the screened door there and stepped back a pace. A woman of average height came to the door, recognized Cal, and greeted him through the screen, “Pastor Troyer.”
The ties of her white prayer cap fell loosely over her bodice. Her dark green dress brushed her ankles, and her black shoes were laced over black hose.
“Hi, Vera,” Cal said. “Is Enos available?”
Vera Erb remained silent while studying the professor, and Cal added, “This is my friend, Vera. Professor Michael Branden.”
Vera nodded a modest greeting to Branden and brought her eyes back to Troyer.
“Enos was in town today,” Cal said. “He came in to see the professor.”
Vera cocked an eyebrow and considered that statement, and Cal realized that she hadn’t known about her husband’s visit to the professor.
“He’s mending tack,” Vera said, and tipped her head toward the stables behind the house.
Branden took a step back, turning toward the stables, but Cal held his place in front of the door. Vera stayed put, watching Cal while nervously drying her hands on a towel.
“Are the troubles getting worse, Vera?” Cal asked.
Vera nodded, ill at ease.
Cal said, “Is Enos going to follow the preacher or the bishop?”
Vera said guardedly, “You’d have to ask him, I reckon.”
“Is this split a done deal?”
“Folks aren’t talking to each other, Cal.”
“Israel’s still
“I think we should go out there, Cal—go see what this is all about.”
“To Calmoutier?”
“Right. Now, if you’ve got time. But what about your letter, Cal? This Rachel Ramsayer?”
“That’s gonna have to wait.”
“What if she’s really your daughter?”
“I need time, Mike,” Cal said, shaking his head. “I’m not ready. Not after all these years.”
9
Friday, May 11 4:30 P.M.
MIKE BRANDEN and Cal Troyer drove northeast on State Route 241 to Mt. Hope and then took Mt. Hope Road north to Holmes County 229. At the intersection, there was a single Amish house and the large, open fields of adjoining Amish farms. To the north, the skies were clear, blue, untroubled. To the south there were thunderheads black with turmoil, and lightning flashed along the leading edge, as the storm lumbered toward the east.
Branden turned right onto 229 and followed Troyer’s directions east for several miles, past the old St. Genevieve Church, to a flat and straight stretch where two gravel driveways opposed one another on the two sides of the road. A right turn took them to the Enos Erb farm; a left would have taken them to the Israel Erb farm. At the entrance to the right driveway, Enos had posted a hand-lettered sign on a plywood board:
Beagle Pups—$8
Trained Rabbit Dogs—$17
Edging 229 and set close to the drive, there was a small red barn with a rusty sheet-metal roof. A slat fence surrounding it enclosed a herd of goats. Two billy goats were tethered outside the fence. Forty yards farther down the gravel lane stood the main house—two stories of white wood frame set on pale yellow foundation blocks, with a wide front porch and a green shingle roof. On the lawn between the big house and the driveway, a young boy and girl, dressed in denim blue and flat black, he in a little straw hat and she in a black bonnet, were playing on a sturdy wooden swing set with a green plastic slide. As the professor’s truck approached, the children stopped pumping their little legs and let the swings come to rest. They sat on the swing seats, watching the two English men carefully as Branden and Troyer climbed out of the truck.
Cal called out, “Hi, kids,” but they had no words for him. With blank faces, they watched him approach, apparently unwilling to speak either to him or to each other. Cal thought nothing of it, and Branden knew it was typical behavior. Amish children fall silent in the presence of adults, especially English ones.
There was a side door to the house, covered by a slanting roof of green corrugated plastic. Troyer knocked on the screened door there and stepped back a pace. A woman of average height came to the door, recognized Cal, and greeted him through the screen, “Pastor Troyer.”
The ties of her white prayer cap fell loosely over her bodice. Her dark green dress brushed her ankles, and her black shoes were laced over black hose.
“Hi, Vera,” Cal said. “Is Enos available?”
Vera Erb remained silent while studying the professor, and Cal added, “This is my friend, Vera. Professor Michael Branden.”
Vera nodded a modest greeting to Branden and brought her eyes back to Troyer.
“Enos was in town today,” Cal said. “He came in to see the professor.”
Vera cocked an eyebrow and considered that statement, and Cal realized that she hadn’t known about her husband’s visit to the professor.
“He’s mending tack,” Vera said, and tipped her head toward the stables behind the house.
Branden took a step back, turning toward the stables, but Cal held his place in front of the door. Vera stayed put, watching Cal while nervously drying her hands on a towel.
“Are the troubles getting worse, Vera?” Cal asked.
Vera nodded, ill at ease.
Cal said, “Is Enos going to follow the preacher or the bishop?”
Vera said guardedly, “You’d have to ask him, I reckon.”
“Is this split a done deal?”
“Folks aren’t talking to each other, Cal.”
“Israel’s still
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