The Amish Seamstress (8 page)

He pulled out his phone and clicked on his flashlight app. As he aimed it at the ground in front of us, we walked back along the fence line and then down the highway, going single file in the darkness. I was relieved he left me to my own thoughts.

When we reached the house, we went in for him to tell my parents goodbye, and then I walked him to his car. After this, I knew I wouldn't see him until Thanksgiving break. That was much too far from now.

He gave me a half hug, really hardly one at all, and said he'd write. I told him I'd write him back. Then he paused for just a moment as if he had more to say. Instead, he climbed into the car and started the engine.

As Zed backed around, I stepped on our lawn and watched. Behind me, the screen door banged and footsteps fell on the porch. I waved as he drove past. He grinned and waved in return, but for once his smile didn't warm my heart. Instead, it practically broke it.

As I headed up to the porch, I made out two figures along the rail. My
mamm
and
daed
. My mother reached me first and put her arms around
me—a rare move for her, indeed.
Daed
joined us, standing on my other side, and together the three of us watched until the red taillights of Zed's car disappeared around the hairpin curve.

They were being so kind that I had to wonder if the two of them had picked up on the shift in my feelings for Zed. Did they know I loved him this way? I doubted it. After all, considering the history here, that would be a very big deal indeed. Thinking of that long-ago conversation when they shared their concerns about my relationship with Zed, I knew one thing had changed and one had not: We were certainly old enough now to embark on a romance, but I was still Amish and he was still Mennonite. As far as I could see, that issue was never going to go away.

“It's been a long day,” I said softly. “I'm going up to bed.”

They nodded in unison, pulling away from me and letting me go into the house first.

I headed straight upstairs, undressed, and crawled under the covers as quickly as I could, willing the tears not to come. But of course they did. I cried again for
Mammi
Nettie. And for Phyllis.

But mostly I cried for myself. Because I was pretty sure I'd just said goodbye, forever, to the only man I would ever love.

F
OUR

I
never returned to the care center as my teacher Patricia had requested, though I did call and leave her a message, saying I appreciated all she'd taught me, but I really was withdrawing from the course just as I had told her I would the day Phyllis died.

After that, as the heat of August turned into a long Indian summer, I focused almost solely on my sewing and handwork. All through September a numbing loneliness was my constant companion as I holed up in my little room and hid from the world. Daily, I prayed that God would help me hold my feelings for Zed Bayer in check until the time was right. It turned out that was easier said than done.

Zed and I corresponded on a regular basis, and though I lived for every new letter that came, I also wondered if, in a way, such constant communications were only making things worse. His letters were serious and funny, wise and wacky all at the same time. They were my lifeline, and I found them both entertaining and encouraging. On the other hand, each new note from him served as a reminder of all we shared, how much I loved him, and how very far away he was.

At least we could connect on our joint project, the research and preparation for his new film. He was so excited about it—and I was still so
clueless about what he had in mind—that finally I asked him to describe the film in detail, laying it all out for me on paper. His response, a letter that came just a week later, was classic Zed.

Izzy Bear,

Great idea, making me put this into words. Okay. Here goes.

EXT. A COVERED BRIDGE. LONG SHOT. DUSK.

What? Not in script form, you say? Okay, sorry about that.

In regular people speak, here's the basic premise, but keep in mind that I still have a lot more research to do. For now, though, this is what I know.

Back in the 1700s, there was an Indian tribe living near Lancaster, called the Conestoga. They lived on land reserved for them in a treaty decades before, by William Penn. But slowly, as more and more settlers came to the area, that land was being encroached upon and taken from them.

The Conestoga were a peaceful tribe, but of course not all Indian tribes in the region were. In fact, there was a lot of bad blood on both sides—Indians and settlers—especially once the French and Indian War started.

Anyway, fast-forward, and it's 1763 and the F&IW has ended but people are still really worked up about the “Indian problem.” The poor Conestoga stayed out of it, but you know how that goes, guilt by association, etc.

Okay, so people start getting really aggravated with all Indians in general until they finally form an angry mob, led by a man from the town of Paxtang. Soon, there are like 250 of these creeps, and they were well on their way to becoming full-throttle vigilantes. They even get a nickname, the “Paxton Boys.”

So then one day the Paxton Boys come down to our region, ride into the Conestoga camp, and kill every
member of the tribe who was there. They don't just kill them, either. They're brutal and destructive, like the Hulk on steroids—well, we won't go into that. Regardless, these Paxton guys are so worked up by then that when they learn some of the Conestoga hadn't been home the day of the massacre, managed to squeak by, and are now huddled together in Lancaster, they ride right into town and massacre them too. Essentially, the Paxton Boys wiped the Conestogas from the face of the earth.

What does all of this have to do with me, you ask? I'll tell ya. I know for a fact that my nine-greats-grandfather, Hubert Lantz, lived in the area at the time and was a friend of the Conestoga Indians. Many of the Plain people here were sympathetic to their cause and horrified at what their fellow settlers had done, my NGGH (Nine-Greats-Grandpa Hubert) included.

Once the massacre was over, a lot of people started writing about what had happened, publically, like hashing it out in the press. People took sides. NGGH, of course, stood on the side of the Conestoga. He even wrote a pamphlet himself, condemning the massacre, and my family still has one, a copy of which is enclosed. As you'll see when you read it, his pamphlet is my inspiration for the film. (Sorry about that. I meant to give it to you before I left for school but forgot.)

Anyway, that's your history lesson for today. What do you think? I want to make a film about NGGH, the Conestoga, the Paxton Boys, and the massacre. (Though I'll keep it G-rated, I promise. No red-colored corn syrup on my movie set!) Of course, I still need to verify the historical facts of the matter and also find more info on NGGH so I can flesh things out.

As you and I learned a few years ago when we were doing that genealogy project, this was the same settlement your people lived in for a while as well, so feel free to dig up some of your own roots. Maybe your ancestors and my ancestors were friends. Get me some names,
and I would be happy to make them actual characters in the film.

Gotta run for now. My roomie is practicing his trumpet, and if I don't get out of here soon, somebody's going to be wearing a new trumpet hat.

Zed

I was glad to get the full rundown on the film, and he was right. This story could be very compelling. The key was in tracking down more facts about his ancestors—and mine.

Once I'd read his letter through twice, I set it aside and focused on the photocopies of the pamphlet he had included. There were four pages, typeset in an old-fashioned style, with the title,
The Paxton Dilemma
, and under that the name of the author,
Hubert Lantz
, followed by the year,
1764
.

I thought I would hang on to every word, but it was very dry and hard to get through, full of old-fashioned terms and phrases, and I ended up merely skimming it instead. At first, more than anything else, it seemed to be a commentary on the political situation at the time, a condemnation of government officials who claimed to be pacifists yet repeatedly channeled funds to be used in “meeting the needs of defense.” The author's words were eloquent and his argument well laid out, but I couldn't see how any of this had inspired Zed to make a movie about it—until I got to the last page. There, the author finally shifted from the political to the personal as he described his own relationship with the locally-based Conestoga Indians.

That I would call them brethren, and Christian brethren at that, is no mere generality. The Conestoga were, in word and deed, wholly and completely given over to the serving and worship of our Lord Jesus Christ. In the days following the massacre, my entire community mourned the loss of these fellow Christians
.

To my dismay, however, now that the massacre is nearly ten months hence, I find this is no longer the case. There are
some with whom I have worshipped, shoulder to shoulder, and indeed considered the dearest of friends, who have begun to change their position of late. They refuse to acknowledge a previous fellowship with the Conestoga, and in fact now endorse the actions of the Paxton Boys. These heretics call themselves A___sh, but their words do not support nor promote A___sh beliefs and practices
.

May we all pray for the souls of these lost sheep who have wandered from the fold, that they may eventually come to see the error of their ways. May it happen before they are cast out entirely and forced to begin anew without benefit of community, fellowship, or God's blessing on their endeavors
.

The pamphlet ended there. I reread that final section again, trying to understand. I knew it wasn't unusual back then for certain institutions, people's names, and even denominations to be somewhat obscured in print, but there was no doubt this man was talking about his fellow Amish. It sounded to me as though rifts were within the community, and that some members had begun to take a very non-Amish stance in the wake of the massacre.

Putting the pamphlet aside, I wrote Zed back right away, asking questions about his research and providing a few ideas of my own about how I could see the story playing out. I also told him I thought the subject was compelling, but that we needed way more information on Hubert Lantz, the “heretics” to which he referred, and the true facts behind whatever had made him make public what should have been a confidential matter, handled within the privacy of the church.

I ended my letter with more general fare. It was a gloomy Friday afternoon when even my sewing wasn't going well, and I was feeling especially down. Soon I found myself bemoaning my situation in full. I poured out a litany of complaints—everything from the constant drone of the generator that powered my machine, to the continued scorn of my mother, to the endless stretch of days that lay between now and Thanksgiving.

My dour mood must have come through in my words, because Zed responded quickly with a shorter but more somber note than usual,
expressing concern at what he said sounded like a case of the “days-are-getting-shorter blues” combined with “extreme Zed withdrawals.”

If he only knew.

He prescribed a program of frequent walks in the sunshine, saying it really was humanly possible “to be more than ten feet from your sewing machine and still manage to survive.” I smiled, even as his concern brought tears to my eyes. He ended the note with bit of a pep talk, saying:

All kidding aside, I'm challenging you to push yourself beyond where you think you can go. Though you may not see it, you have an incredible inner strength and grace. It's time for you to draw on that. Start pushing, Iz. Push yourself hard, and let God take it from there.

Yours,

Zed

I wasn't sure what he meant, but I tucked it away as food for thought. As the sun of September left, replaced by the gray days of October, which brought rain and then more rain, I realized I couldn't put off leaving the house any longer. One especially dismal Monday morning, I decided it was past time for me to push myself and deliver the work I'd finished to my cousin Susie's shop. Otherwise, I'd have no money to show for my efforts at all.

She'd been having great success selling my work and had left several phone messages requesting more. I'd asked
Daed
to do the delivery for me, but he'd refused, saying it was my responsibility.