Hidden Life (9781455510863) Read online

  Carrie gasped while Emma fought down a pang. It was not jealousy. It wasn’t. It was simply the knowledge that Amelia would not need her friends as much once everything was settled and she had Eli to make a family with. They would still be neighbors, and would still see each other all the time, but it wouldn’t be the same. Amelia would have new priorities, which was just as it should be.

  God was healing Amelia’s heart even as He healed her body, and a good friend would rejoice with her in the happy times just as she’d cried with her in times of despair.

  Emma crossed the room and gave Amelia a hug as soon as Carrie released her, fervently hoping that Amelia would not see that despair was her own struggle, now.

  Emma loved the smell of freshly cut grass and baking bread. Now she had a third favorite smell: the scent of newly cut planks on a finished porch.

  She wouldn’t need to walk circumspectly up to her own doors anymore, for sure. She sat on the back step and gave an experimental bounce.

  Nothing moved. Solid as a rock. The workman was truly worthy of his hire.

  As if she’d conjured him up out of the late-afternoon air, Grant came around the side of the house, looking up at the clapboard and eyeing the trim. A hummingbird shot past his ear—she would have to get the feeder back up soon, before they got cranky and abandoned them—and when he turned to follow its flight, he saw her.

  “Hello, Emma. Taking it for a drive?”

  She gripped the edge of the sun-warmed plank, set evenly next to its neighbors and perfectly on square. “Ischt gut. Think I’ll keep it.”

  “Glad to hear it. Careful you don’t get a sliver. The boys and I are going to paint tomorrow.” She nodded, and he looked up again. “We should do the rest of the house or it will look bad. When was this place last painted?”

  A good question. Karen had been pregnant, but with which child? “Nine years ago, maybe? I think Karen was expecting Maryann, and she’s eight now.”

  Grant nodded. “Coming up on ten years, it’s probably time. I’ll check with John and make sure it’s okay we do the whole thing.”

  Here was a chance that wouldn’t come around again for another ten years. “If he agrees, maybe we could paint the trim green instead of blue?”

  “Don’t you like blue?”

  It had been a bad mix that someone had refused at the warehouse store. Pap had consequently got it for cheap, and the color always reminded her of bread mold. “I like blue just fine, but I think green would be better. It’s a cheery color, to match the trees and the lawn.”

  Mamm adored color, which anyone could tell by the orange day lilies and the roses and snapdragons she’d planted over the years, but to paint one’s house and outbuildings anything but white was unheard of. Even green trim was pushing the district’s Ordnung just a bit; Daniel Lapp painted his black in a pointed reminder to the Gmee about his standards of plainness. And if you wanted red or burgundy, you were plumb out of luck.

  “I used green for mine,” Grant said, still scanning the sills and trim boards. Emma felt a tiny burst of pleasure at having that decision in common. “I’ll check with John, then, and get some more white and a gallon can of green while I’m in town. I hope you’re not fussy about what shade.” He smiled, and even if the sun hadn’t been spiking through the trees in broad rays, she would have felt the world had burst into light. “If you ever had a hankering to write graffiti on the walls like the city kids do, now’s your chance. Tomorrow we’ll cover up all the evidence.”

  What on earth—? The insanity of such a thing startled a laugh out of her. “Honestly, the things you say.”

  “Just don’t do it in blue. That will show through, no matter how many coats of white we put on it.”

  “I won’t do it in any color. I’m not going to vandalize my own house.” Technically it was John and Karen’s house, but still.

  Smiling now that he’d got a rise out of her, he gestured over his shoulder. “I’ve got a couple of cans and the other stuff in the wagon. I’ll just leave them here until tomorrow, unless you want them out of the way in the shed.”

  “Here is fine.”

  While he brought the paint cans, she helped him by carrying the milk crates full of the brushes and rollers, well used but well cared for. When they’d lined everything up on the new porch, she dusted off her hands on her kitchen apron.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He nodded. “If we do the whole house, my crew will be here another couple of days.”

  “I’ll have breakfast ready at seven, same as usual, then.”

  A small silence fell.

  “You’re a good cook.”

  She looked up, surprised. Another compliment. For a woman who had been starved of them, these were riches indeed. “My teacher sits at the same table. I would hear about it if the eggs weren’t fluffy and the biscuits light.”

  “And a good writer. You can’t say your teacher is responsible for that.”

  “I’d better, if I don’t want a head so big I can’t get in the door.”

  “No danger of that.” He shot her a look. “Did you ever have a little time to write that article?”

  Guilt arrowed through her. “I’ve been turning it over in my mind. I’ll put something on paper tonight and send it this week.”

  He nodded. “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

  Not in comparison to everything he had given. Going to the police must have been awful for a man as private and quiet as this one. Even asking her for this little thing had to have been difficult. “What are friends for, if not to help?”

  “You’re a gut friend. I thank God for my friends in these difficult days.”

  Remembering her foolishness, her secret thoughts, her silly pleasure at his compliments, Emma felt worse than ever.

  The moon hung low over the horizon, and beyond the gentle hills and farms of Whinburg Township, the first wash of gray lightened the night sky.

  Emma crept down the stairs. She hadn’t slept much. After writing the article and folding it into its envelope, she’d stared at the ceiling. Lavina had left of her own free will. But when the article was published, people would hear of her again. Yes, she was under die Meinding, so by the letter of the law she did not have a voice. But Emma would speak for her. Grant would speak for her. Would people hear? Would Lavina herself hear the voices calling her name?

  Would she come back? And if she did, what then?

  Finally, toward two o’clock, Emma had fallen into a fitful sleep. Her eyes had opened a couple of hours later with the certainty of what she was going to do…as if she’d dreamed it.

  Quietly, she put on a dress so old she’d only used it to feed the cows when Pap had kept them, and slipped downstairs barefoot. With a screwdriver from Pap’s toolbox, she opened the can of white paint and carried it around to the side of the house that faced the fields. No one would see from the road, and Mamm was not in the habit anymore of rambling around the yard. With a shim from the construction debris that someone had forgotten to pick up, she stirred the paint, then chose a nice wide brush.

  Her whole body got into the work, bending and stretching and slashing stroke after stroke. It didn’t take long.

  She put everything back where she’d found it. Even if John said no, the house could go another couple of years before it needed painting, it would be a while before anyone saw. And even longer before they figured out who was responsible.

  When Grant arrived in the morning, his two helpers riding in the back of the spring wagon with their feet swinging, it took him a few minutes to realize that something was different. She watched from her bedroom window, standing to one side of the frame so he wouldn’t look up and see her.

  She saw him spell out the letters, painted white on white and four feet tall on the side of the house.

  L-I-S-T-E-N

  Chapter 6

  May 10, 2012

  Dear Ms. Stolzfus,

  I am the literary agent who read your entry, Inherit the Earth, in t
he Commonwealth Prize fiction contest. Since the contest was seeking the next voice in literary fiction, and yours had a more down-to-earth, accessible tone, I was unable to award it the point score it deserved—deserved being the operative term. Ms. Stolzfus, your writing has a lyrical voice, humor, and the kind of penetrating but compassionate insight into the human spirit that certain markets are desperately seeking.

  Are you already represented? If not, I would very much like the chance to speak with you. My phone number and email address are below. Please give me a call. Or, if it’s more convenient, let me know your number and I’ll call you. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Sincerely,

  Tyler West

  West & Associates

  Literary Agency

  May 12, 2012

  Dear Tyler West,

  Thank you for your letter. I am Amish and have no phone except for the one in the shanty out on Edgeware Road, and I don’t have enough quarters for a long-​distance call to New York. I hope you will not mind.

  I appreciate all the nice things you said about my writing. I’m not sure what you mean about insight into the human spirit. In my experience, the human spirit does better when folks don’t know what’s going on in there. But it was kind of you to be so encouraging.

  I’m also not sure what you meant about representation. I don’t plan to publish the story. My bishop would never allow it. Even though the Ordnung doesn’t include anything about publishing books (that I know of), it has plenty to say about women speaking up in public and drawing attention to themselves.

  Thank you again for your letter. I’ll keep it always.

  Sincerely,

  Emma Stolzfus

  May 14, 2012

  Dear Ms. Stolzfus,

  Your letter was the best thing to happen to me all week. Thank you for your speedy reply.

  I know you said you don’t plan to publish the story, but I hope I can convince you otherwise. What representation means is that I would take your manuscript to several editors that I know. Once you give it to me and I have your permission, you don’t have to do a thing. The editors will read it, and if someone likes it, they’ll offer you an advance against royalties—in other words, an up-front payment. Then they’ll publish your book and you get a percentage of every copy that sells.

  I know several editors right off the top of my head who would kill for this book. The Amish are very popular right now. Please don’t do your book a disservice by putting it in a drawer. People will love your characters and your town—and you.

  Let me know what you would like to do.

  Best,

  Tyler

  May 16, 2012

  Dear Tyler,

  Please don’t let anyone kill for my book. It isn’t that good. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you represent it. Popular or not, an Amish woman can’t be published, and that’s all there is to it.

  I’m sorry if I misled you when I entered it in the contest. I only wanted to see how it would do. I never expected to be a finalist. What I’ve gained from my experience was more than good enough for me.

  Thank you,

  Emma

  May 18, 2012

  Dear Emma,

  Maybe you can help me understand a little more about this Ordnung thing if we meet in person and talk it over. I really feel you have a bright future in fiction, and it would be a shame to…not sure what the expression is. Hide your light under a basket?

  I’m informed by my assistant that the Amish do not fly in planes. Enclosed please find a business-class ticket on the Pennsylvanian from Lancaster into Penn Station. You’ll be met and after that I’d like to take you to dinner, talk this over, and show you around a little. I’ll also put you up in a hotel close to the office and you can go home the next day. Don’t worry about anything. This one is on me.

  As you can tell, I’m serious about this. I hope you will take me seriously.

  Plus, I’d love to find out if the person on the page is the same as the person in real life.

  My best,

  Tyler

  The person on the page? What on earth did he mean?

  Emma fingered the train ticket. Never mind her, what about him? She had never heard of a man so forward. Did he do this all the time—invite women he’d never met on overnight trips? She had half a mind to rip his presumptuous letter and ticket into tiny pieces and mail them back to him.

  But that would be a waste of eighty dollars, not to mention a stamp, said the other half of her mind. Think of how much he believes in your book, if he would go out on a limb like this to convince you.

  Actions spoke louder than words, everybody knew that. His words had been wonderful gut, no doubt about it. Her vanity had been stroked as smooth as velvet during the last several days. What were this letter and the ticket but more of the same, puffing her up and making her think she must be somebody? Bad enough she had allowed this correspondence to go on so long. It would be a sin of the most dangerous sort to go to New York and hear these blandishments in person—especially having accepted the man’s money.

  Yet…under the compliments and the temptation was a truth that she couldn’t avoid. He had read her book. He believed in it. He was listening, and he had the ability to make other people listen.

  And that was the most powerful temptation of all.

  Communion Sunday was at Karen and John’s, a case of perfect timing as far as construction went. Not only was the Daadi Haus sparkling with its new coat of pristine white—her graffiti painted over with not one word spoken on the subject—but a couple of days before, there had been a painting frolic at the big house. The crew hadn’t had time to do the barns, but Emma had no doubt that was number one on Karen’s list.

  Emma tried to quiet her mind on this, one of the holiest days of the year. As Bishop Daniel tore a piece from the loaf of bread in his hands, she focused on the sacrifice of Jesus, and the community of believers that it had made. They had all been brought together in unity. There were no individual grains of wheat left in this loaf; each one had been ground to powder so that it could contribute its essence to the whole.

  Her determination to do nothing that would make her seem like a grain of wheat sticking in the community’s teeth lasted until after the all-day service ended. Then, Amelia and Carrie separated themselves from their men and walked over to the Daadi Haus with Emma to see the new porches.

  At which point she made the mistake of showing them Tyler West’s letter and the train ticket, large as life.

  Amelia was rendered speechless. Carrie took the letter and read it a second time, her eyes huge as she lifted her gaze to Emma’s. “This is amazing—and a little shocking,” she managed. “Are you going to go?”

  “Of course she’s not,” Amelia finally got out. “I hope you haven’t told anyone, Emma. If anyone hears, you can only imagine the fuss.”

  Amelia was no stranger to fusses, after last winter. And she’d been sensitive about people’s opinions before that.

  “No, I haven’t. Not even Mamm.”

  “Have you answered him?” Carrie asked. She pulled her sweater tighter and folded her arms. It was cool out, with clouds piling up in the east. If they were in for a storm, it was good that the paint had had time to dry.

  “I just got it yesterday. There hasn’t been time. And I—” I don’t know what to say.

  No, that wasn’t true. She did know. At least, she had up until she’d broken bread, when God had clearly pointed her in the way she should go.

  “What are you going to tell him?” Amelia wanted to know. “I know what I’d say.”

  Did she have to sound quite so positive? “Seems to me you were in this very position not so long ago. Knowing what you wanted to do, yet knowing that if you did it, you’d put your soul in danger.”

  Amelia flinched, and turned to look back down the lane. “It’s not the same. This isn’t life and death, and you don’t have two little boys depending on your decision.”

  Emma breathed in
a lungful of air scented with cut grass and the vigorous plants coming up in her garden. “That’s true. I don’t.”

  “But what an experience it would be,” Carrie said on a sigh. “I’ve never been outside Pennsylvania, not even for vacations. At least you’ve been to Florida, Emma. I would love to take a ride on a train all the way to New York.”

  Emma held out the ticket and Carrie snatched it away, dimpling. Quick as a chicken yanking a worm from the soil, Amelia whipped it away from both of them. “Neither of you can be trusted with this.”

  “Careful, you’ll tear it,” Emma protested, reaching for the slip of paper. Thank heaven for Carrie, who could lighten a mood the way the weather changed.

  Amelia handed it over with a big show of reluctance. “It would be better torn, and then it wouldn’t tempt you.”

  “What wouldn’t tempt her?” Emma turned to see Mamm leaning on Maryann’s shoulder, making her slow way up the path to the front door.

  She went to her side. “I’ll look after her from here. Denki, Maryann.”

  The girl nodded and ran off in the direction of the creek, where distant shouts told her the children were trying to resist the temptation to play, and failing. Karen would have a wash basket full of muddy pants tomorrow.

  “What’s tempting you?” Lena asked again as the younger women followed her and Emma into the house. Her sharp eyes hadn’t missed the letter and the ticket.

  If only she’d shown them inside, in the privacy of her room upstairs. But it was too late now.

  “A literary agent from New York thinks he can sell my book,” she said, when Mamm was comfortable in her chair. “Do you want some tea while I get supper?”

  “I do not. I want you to tell me how a man in New York even knows you have a book when I don’t. What book? Is that what you clack away on that typewriter for at all hours of the night?”