The Outcast Page 17

  At first, Leah could not comprehend what she was seeing. She had made her way down the stairs, not because she believed something clandestine was taking place, but because she believed her sister’s cry to mean that she had injured herself. And even after Leah saw her husband and sister kneeling in that puddle of pickled beet juice as red as blut, her initial reaction was relief that Tobias had also heard Rachel’s cry and hurried to her aid.

  But then Leah saw her husband’s face, saw a tenderness there he never expressed except upon their own marriage bed, the bed to which Leah was now confined. Leah saw how Rachel could not look at Tobias as he took an untarnished corner of his rag and dabbed the wine-colored stain smearing her cheek, but instead closed her eyes. Leah saw how Rachel’s skin burned just as brightly as that stain, and she knew the only time her own skin burned like that was when her husband was watching her with that same tender expression.

  Leah felt her insides collapse. In her mind’s eye, she could see each organ as a wooden block; the last piece of the game had been pulled out, and the tower started tumbling down. She was tempted just to fall backward onto the hardwood floor and see what such a fall would cause. Leah did not want to harm the baby swimming and kicking inside her womb; she just wanted the pain in her heart to ease. Leah believed the only way she could stop this pain was by inflicting a different kind of pain upon herself. Instead, she forced breath into the steel trap of her lungs. Prying her fingers from the doorframe, she brought her hands down by her sides, where they clenched and wrung her sweaty gown.

  Leah again looked into the sweltering kitchen, where two strips of flypaper hung from the ceiling like sticky yellow streamers, and watched Tobias place his hand flat against her sister’s cheek. She watched how Rachel tilted her head toward that touch. Murmuring something, Tobias got to his feet and let Rachel remain kneeling in that dark-red pool sparkling with glass shards.

  Leah’s husband strode out of the kitchen so quickly, she had no time to hide. All she could do was flatten her expectant body against the wall dividing the dining room from the kitchen like a child playing kick the can. Her breathing shortened to the point that it came out in ragged bursts. Leah thought for sure that Tobias would overhear her as he moved past. But he heard nothing; he saw nothing. And it wasn’t until Tobias left the dining room and Leah heard the front door slam that she realized her husband had been so focused on her sister, he hadn’t noticed his own wife standing in the next room.

  Leah now picks the oil lamp up from the counter and brings it closer to the window. Leaning over the becken until the ceramic edge digs into her diaphragm, she twists the lamp’s brass knob so that the extended wick flares and again studies her reflection—again thinking how much that reflection, that face, is so like her sister’s. Heaving the oil lamp back until the flame glimmers high above her head, Leah prepares to smash it through the glass to destroy the image she sees along with the identical one that haunts her. But as always, common sense overrules her rash thoughts. Blowing out the lamp and setting it back on the counter, Leah drapes the hunlomma over the spigot to dry, turns and leaves the kitchen, and begins to climb the stairs.

  The oddest thing about tonight—looking down the length of table laden with food she had prepared to honor her sister and watching how her husband and sister danced around each other in a taut configuration only they knew—was that the intuitional knowledge of their affair did not devastate Leah. It shook her, yes; it caused her to question everything she loved and everyone who claimed to love her. But since that afternoon Leah came downstairs and saw Tobias and Rachel kneeling in that blut-red spill, it was like Leah’s life had been lived on borrowed time, and her internal clock had struck its final hour. Everything from here on was new, for she finally knew everything. Leah knew that Eli was Tobias’s child, and that he was probably conceived under this very roof, in the very home she had opened to her twin. She remembers how she fought to keep Rachel here, sheltered from the community’s harsh elements, even though her sister was pregnant with an illegitimate child. Oh, how Tobias must’ve laughed at her as she pleaded! How he must’ve felt that he had pulled the wool over Leah’s eyes as he agreed to let Rachel, his lover, stay!

  Rachel . . . oh, Rachel.

  With each step Leah climbs, she can feel tears climbing up her throat. But she swallows, forces them to remain deep within the wellspring of her soul, for if she begins to cry now, she fears she might never stop. It is heartrending to know that she was not enough to satisfy her husband, that he sought someone who looked identical to her but had more snap and fire, more zest for life that he thought would translate into a better experience on the carnal bed.

  What is even more devastating than this, though, is her sister’s betrayal. All their conjoined lives, they have been each other’s best friend, soul mate, confidante. Leah was so satisfied with her and Rachel’s effortless companionship, she had no desire for anything more. It wasn’t until her mudder came up to their bedroom with the dark-paneled walls and curtains hanging limp in the windows and showed her the envelope titled with Tobias King’s return address that Leah realized life was soon going to change. Either she left their yellow house on Hilltop Road or Rachel did, but either way, they would be separated.

  Walking past the children’s rooms where the girls and boys (except for Jonathan) are sleeping two to a bed, Leah stops outside the room that Rachel and Eli had occupied. She pushes open the door and steps inside, inhaling the cool air that has been trapped since mid-November along with the scent of the lavender sachets Rachel placed in each of her dresser drawers to adorn with perfume her otherwise Plain clothes.

  Standing in the very room where she believes her husband and sister betrayed her, Leah should be filled with fury, with sorrow. She should want to tip over the dresser, yank out the drawers, and strew the floor with the lavender sachets before stomping the tiny blossoms to a bluish powder.

  But she doesn’t. Leah is still angry with her husband—as angry as she was when she watched him tonight, trying to lead her sister into a conversation she would take no part of—yet she cannot be angry with Rachel. She is hurt by her; she is so wounded, she is not sure her wounds will ever heal enough to enable her to trust her sister again. But she still loves Rachel, will always love Rachel, and she will not allow her sister’s betrayal to destroy their bond, which was developed even before birth.

  Leah eases back into the hallway and closes the door. Before entering Rachel’s room, she’d stumbled upstairs as if her mind were clotted with sedative, but now she strides down the hall and softly pushes open her bedroom door.

  Her husband is still awake. Leah can sense this by his breathing and by the stiff way his body is curled beneath the sheets. But Tobias doesn’t turn toward her or even acknowledge that she has entered their room. Not a word is exchanged as Leah wrenches the cape dress over her head and tugs the bobby pins and kapp from her hair. She kicks her shoes into the corner and peels the second skin of her black tights off her legs. For the first time since Tobias began his nightly ritual of detachment because she could not forgive him for Rachel’s leaving, Leah allows herself to care. Pulse throbbing, she slips beneath the quilt and barely moves, barely breathes, as she edges across the cold sheets until her body can feel her husband’s body’s warmth. Leah’s fingertips trace her husband’s shoulder with a tenderness that she does not feel, but which she hopes the familiarity of their union will be able to resurrect. Tobias turns. Tears stream from Leah’s eyes and dampen her hair, and she prays that as she makes this last attempt to awaken her husband’s love, he will not be longing for her sister.

  Rachel

  As I enter the schoolhouse on Sunday morning, I can feel my cheeks and ears tingle with embarrassment. The community will not stop staring at me and the child in my arms; their faces twist with such open repugnance, it contradicts the passivity doctrine all Mennonites are to exemplify. I hold Eli tighter and keep walking down that never-ending aisle separating the women from the men. I come to t
he first bench seat I used to occupy with my sister, who preferred to sit up front out of support for her father-in-law, the bishop. Now it is out of support for her husband, who was granted Amos King’s role by a tiny slip of paper. Sitting down and settling Eli in my lap, I am looking straight ahead with my jaws clenched when the double doors of the schoolhouse bang shut, causing an aftershock that shakes the glass in the four windows on either side of the building.

  Bishop Tobias King is the one who has done this, the one who stalks up to the front and maneuvers behind the crude podium his father built to hold the Ausbund and perhaps a glass of water, not for decoration like the Englischers. Gripping the podium, Tobias looks at the members of his flock in turn.

  By the wintry light slanting in through the school’s oblong windows, the skin of my brother-in-law’s face looks stretched until his cheekbones jut out like sabers and his nose like a beak. I have to wonder if the sin he is hiding on the inside is beginning to wear him down on the outside. I know some might think we are equally guilty of keeping our shared sin a secret. But I tell myself that Tobias’s secrecy is worse than mine: he is trying to salvage his pride; I am trying to protect Leah, my sister whom I so dearly love.

  Clearing his throat, Tobias looks down at the podium as if studying the text it holds. However, I can see from my position so near to his that nothing is there except for his closed German Bible, the same Bible he read from at his father’s funeral two months ago. Tobias glances up and motions to old Elmer Schlabach, who sways to his feet and takes a pitch pipe from his pants pocket.

  After he hits a few discordant notes, one makes it out free and clear. Elmer begins to lead the congregation—his voice as unsteady as his stance—in 131, “O Gott, Vater, wir loben dich und deine Güte preisen.”

  I am glad that I am seated up front so no one but Tobias can see that, instead of singing, I have closed my eyes to focus on the effortless melding of the community’s voices. Each person, from the time he or she could talk, has been memorizing these hymns that have been passed down since the sixteenth century, even before our ancestors fled persecution in Switzerland and Germany and arrived on the patch of land given to us by the English real estate entrepreneur William Penn. From the voices of the people lifting anthems in praise of our heavenly Savior’s kindness, you would never guess that these are the same people who have rejected me here on earth.

  If I am to seek forgiveness, though, I must first forgive. I must stop nourishing the bitterness that has taken root within my heart, and I must stop believing that the majority of the community harbors evil within theirs. Back when Amos King was bishop, Copper Creek was known for its warmth and hospitality to outsiders, yet even he could not protect me from the women’s wagging tongues as my pregnant belly started to expand. I never heard my name mentioned—or any man’s in conjunction with mine—but as soon as the bakery door, the cannery door, the leatherworks door, the sorghum mill door would swish shut behind me, the women would bolt upright from the counters they’d been hunkered over and begin mumbling something so mundane, I knew they’d really been gossiping about me.

  The hymn now completed, everyone stops singing so abruptly, you cannot hear one unsynchronized breath. Elmer Schlabach will usually lead in two or three more hymns before Tobias gives an opening sermon. This is followed by the community kneeling in silent prayer, a Scripture reading, and the main sermon. Tobias holds up his hand to show that he is ready to begin. My stomach drops. I know that today is going to be different.

  Nodding at Elmer, Tobias waits for him to take his seat before he begins. “I know it is my duty as bishop to bring a sermon that can challenge you until the next Lord’s day. But today, I find that the Lord has not given me anything in which to lead. Just this small portion of text I hope you will carry as a warning, not just throughout this next week, but into the coming months and years ahead.”

  Then, looking out over the congregation to everyone except me, he opens the Bible to Ezekiel 16 and begins to read the allegory about unfaithful Jerusalem: “‘You would not even mention your sister Sodom in the day of your pride, before your wickedness was uncovered. Even so, you are now scorned by the daughters of Edom and all her neighbors and the daughters of the Philistines—all those around you who despise you. You will bear the consequences of your lewdness and your detestable practices, declares the Lord.’” Closing the Bible, which causes dust to rise up and dance in the sunlight, Tobias stuffs it under his arm and strides out of the schoolhouse, smashing both doors open just as forcefully as he had closed them.

  I am sure it is obvious to anyone who listened that these verses were chosen for me, the adulteress of Copper Creek. Mortified by this singling out, I stand and gather my son close before striding down the aisle the new bishop just walked. Despite my exit being scrutinized just as much as my entrance, this time I do not blush. I do not need my sister’s arm to lean on. My steps do not falter as I leave. If the community thinks I do this because I am offended, let them; if they think I do this because my pride is hurt, let them. I am not going to squander my life trying to keep the boundaries of it under Old Order Mennonite lines. I am going to live my life as a woman who has fallen far enough to know that legalism is not the same thing as righteousness.

  When I exit the schoolhouse, snowflakes left over from last night’s storm flutter down from the sky like tidbits of lace and cling to Tobias’s black buggy and horse. A flock of red-winged blackbirds peck at the grass impaling the white landscape. Tobias mutters something beneath his breath; his rage sends the birds spiraling into the air, painting the gray clouds with every flap of their crimson-accented wings. The double doors of the schoolhouse are still flung wide, so I make no noise when I come out through them.

  Because of this, Tobias has no idea that I am standing here observing him, and as I do, I see that his foot is poised on the buggy’s step as if he’s trying to decide whether he should mount or descend. I watch the expressions shifting across Tobias’s features—anger, remorse, sadness, frustration—like each is part of a puppet’s face being manipulated by a much larger hand. Trying to turn from my mistakes as Mamm suggested, I let my heart go out to this tormented man, not as someone who once shared my bed, but as someone who is so consumed with saving his reputation, he is in the process of losing his soul.

  I bind my woolen shawl tighter around my shoulders and sweep up a piece of hair that has slipped from my kapp. Eli nestles closer to my bosom. The snow falls upon his face and melts upon his skin as if touching a fiery skillet. Stepping down the icy school steps, I touch my hand to his cheek and can feel the heightened temperature there. My son is running a fever. Not a high one, but high enough that his blue eyes—which I thought were just bright—now appear glassy, and his cheeks are red with something other than this fearsome cold.

  “Tobias,” I call, walking over to him.

  His head snaps up, his dark eyes narrowing when they alight on my outstretched hand. “What’re you doing?” he barks.

  Putting the hand I had extended back around Eli, I say, “I just want to tell you I know why you read those verses, and I want you to know that it is all right.”

  “It’s not my duty to make sure that you’re all right.”

  “No,” I murmur. “I would say it’s never been.”

  Tobias silences his inner argument and climbs up into the buggy, sits on the bench seat with his hands wrapping the reins. Even from where I stand, I can see how his fingers are shaking. “You need to go,” he says. “You don’t need to be seen talking here with me.”

  Behind me, I can hear the clomp of shoes on the schoolhouse steps, the distant chatter in Pennsylvania Dutch as the people make their slow way toward the double doors. I say, quietly so that no one else might overhear, “The truth of the matter is, Tobias, you don’t want to be seen talking here with me.”

  But he’s turned deaf. I shake my head and turn to greet the person who is walking toward me. My sister. Her steps are measured as her blue eyes flit between me
and her husband with a questioning look I have never seen in them before.

  Dread punches the breath from my lungs. Smiling to mask it, I walk over and take her arm. “Didn’t our sons do good during the service?” I ask. But Leah says nothing, just watches Eli reach for his cousin and entwine their pudgy, drool-covered hands. Although they are very different in coloring, Jonathan and Eli’s facial features are becoming more and more similar the older my son grows. It is a bittersweet pleasure to watch how, even in infancy, the two cousins interact as if no distance has ever come between them.

  Nothing like the distance I feel emanating from Leah now.

  The entire congregation has filed out of the schoolhouse’s doors and is shuffling through the snow toward the individual buggies that look so identical, Englischers are mystified that we can tell them apart.

  Tobias leans out of the buggy and calls brusquely to his wife. “Come now, Leah.”

  Nodding at him, she turns back and looks at Eli and Jonathan through unseeing eyes. “Don’t you think it’s odd,” she says, separating our children’s conjoined hands, “how our sons could almost pass as brothers?”

  Feigning a migraine, after the church service I ask my dawdy to take me back to the dawdi haus, and then I watch through my parents’ front window as the caravan of horses and buggies begins the three-mile journey to Abner and Sadie Glick’s, whose turn it is to host the bimonthly fellowship meal. Not wanting Eli to sense my distress, I play with him on the pallet before lying down beside him. I stare at my child for a long time after he has fallen asleep—marveling at his dimpled hands clutching the silken edge of his blankie and praying that despite the sterilizing effects of radiation and chemotherapy, those hands will one day hold a child of his own. Willing tears from my eyes, I ease off the pallet and tiptoe into the kitchen. I take a seat at the table and look out the window to the sun glittering off the thawing patches of snow and the bare black branches of the sycamore sheathed in ice that drips like tinsel. Seeing the tree that Tobias and I stood under two nights ago calls to mind another tree that once sheltered me—not from the frigid wind, but from the summer’s heat.