Authors: Linda Castillo
Miriam’s eyes flick nervously to me, then to her husband. Grabbing the kitchen towel, she uses it to dry hands that are already perfectly dry.
“Sitz dich anne un bleib e weil,”
she says to her husband. Sit yourself down and stay a while.
Staring straight ahead, Willis pulls out a chair and sinks into it.
“En kins-kind,”
he whispers. A grandchild.
“You heard?” Miriam asks him.
“My hearing is just fine.” When he raises his head and looks at his wife, I see tears in his eyes. “It’s been a long time since we had a little one in this house. Not since Noah.”
“Well, I’m not so old that I can’t manage a baby,” Miriam huffs, but she’s crying, too. “A mother never forgets.”
“A father, too,” he whispers.
Realizing this is a private moment that I’m no longer a part of, I pull the social worker’s card from my pocket and place it on the table in front of Willis.
* * *
Back in the Explorer, I take a moment to calm my own emotions, trying in vain not to examine them too closely. In that instant, I’m keenly aware of my age. The passage of time. How easily the things we cherish can slip away. No matter how unflagging my denial of its existence, I know there is a silent clock ticking inside me. A clock that sets its own pace, one that cannot be sped up or slowed down or stopped.
Another deep breath and I’m steady enough to call Tomasetti.
“I hope you’re not too far away,” he says without preamble.
“You miss me that desperately, huh?”
“That, and I just broke the seal on that Cabernet you’ve been saving.”
I laugh, but my voice is thick with emotion. I don’t want him to know that I’m a little too caught up in this Baby Doe case. That I’m probably thinking a little too hard about my own life.
“Kate?”
Feeling like an idiot, I choke out a sound that betrays the tears waiting at the gate. “I’m leaving the Fisher place now.”
“Everything okay?”
“I think the grandparents are going to adopt Baby Doe,” I tell him.
“Good for them.” His voice is warm. “Good for everyone involved.” He falls silent and then asks, “So, are you coming home?”
Home.
I like the way the word rolls off his tongue. The warm impression it leaves in my chest. “John Tomasetti,” I whisper, “You can count on it.”
Read on for an excerpt from
Linda Castillo
’s new novel,
After the Storm,
available July 2015
CHAPTER 1
Present day
I was eight years old when I learned there were consequences for associating with the English. Consequences that were invariably negative and imposed by well-meaning Amish parents bent on upholding the rules set forth by our Anabaptist forefathers nearly three hundred years ago. In my case, this particular life lesson transpired at the horse auction near Millersburg and involved a twelve-year-old English boy and the Appaloosa gelding he was trying to sell. Add me to the mix, and it was a dangerous concoction that ended with me taking a fall and my father’s realization that I saw the concept of rules in a completely different light—and I possessed an inherent inability to follow them.
I never forgot the lesson I learned that day or how much it hurt my eight-year-old heart, which, even at that tender age, was already raging against the unfairness of the
Ordnung
and all of those who would judge me for my transgressions. But the lessons of my formative years didn’t keep me from breaking the same rules time and time again, defying even the most fundamental of Amish tenets. By the time I entered my teens, just about everyone had realized I couldn’t conform and, worse, that I didn’t fit in, both of which are required of a member of the Amish community.
Now, at the age of thirty-three, I can’t quite reconcile myself to the fact that I’m still trying to please those who will never approve and failing as miserably as I did when I was an inept and insecure fifteen-year-old girl.
“Stop worrying.”
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of John Tomasetti’s Tahoe, not sure if I’m impressed by his perceptivity or annoyed because my state of mind is so apparent. We’ve been living together at his farm for seven months now, and while we’ve had some tumultuous moments, I have to admit it’s been the happiest and most satisfying time of my life.
Tomasetti, a former detective with the Cleveland Division of Police, is an agent with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Investigation. Like me, he has a troubled past and more than his share of secrets, some I suspect I’m not yet privy to. But we have an unspoken agreement that we won’t let our pasts dictate our happiness or how we live our lives. Honestly, he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I like to think the sentiment runs both ways.
“What makes you think I’m worried?” I tell him, putting forth a little attitude.
“You’re fidgeting.”
“I’m fidgeting because I’m nervous,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
He glances at me, scowling, but his eyes are appreciative as he runs them over me. “You look nice.”
I hide my smile by looking out the window. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s working.”
Good humor plays at the corner of his mouth. “It’s not like you to change clothes four times.”
“Hard to dress for an Amish dinner.”
“Especially when you used to be Amish, apparently.”
“Maybe I should have made an excuse.” I glance out the window at the horizon. “Weatherman said it’s going to rain.”
“It’s not like you to chicken out.”
“Unless it’s my brother.”
“Kate, he invited you. He wants you there.” He reaches over, sets his hand on my thigh just above my knee, and squeezes. I wonder if he has any idea how reassuring the gesture is. “Be yourself and let the chips fall.”
I don’t point out that being myself is exactly the thing that got me excommunicated from my Amish brethren in the first place.
He makes the turn into the long gravel lane of my brother Jacob’s farm. The place originally belonged to my parents but was handed down to him, the eldest male child, when they passed away. I mentally brace as the small apple orchard on my right comes into view. The memories aren’t far behind, and I find myself looking down the rows of trees, almost expecting to see the three Amish kids sent to pick apples for pies. Jacob, Sarah, and I had been inseparable back then, and instead of picking apples, we ended up playing hide-and-seek until it was too dark to see. As was usually the case, I was the instigator. Kate, the
druvvel-machah.
The “troublemaker.” Or so my
datt
said. The one and only time I confessed to influencing my siblings, he punished me by taking away my favorite chore: bottle-feeding the three-week-old orphan goat I’d named Sammy. I’d cajoled and argued and begged. I was rewarded by being sent to bed with no supper and a stomachache from eating too many green apples.
The house is plain and white with a big front porch and tall windows that seem to glare at me as we veer right. The maple tree I helped my
datt
plant when I was twelve is mature and shades the hostas that grow alongside the house. In the side yard, I catch sight of two picnic tables with mismatched tablecloths flapping in the breeze.
I take in the old chicken house ahead and the big barn to my left, and it strikes me how much of my past is rooted in this place. And how much of it is gone forever. When you’re Amish, there are no photos. There are no corny albums or school pictures or embarrassing videos. My parents have long since passed, which means everything that happened here, both good and bad, exists only in my memory and the memories of my siblings. Maybe that’s why I can’t stay away. No matter how many times my brother hurts me, I always come back, like a puppy that’s been kicked but knows no other place to be, no other comfort.
I want to share this part of my past with Tomasetti. I want him to stand in the shade of the maple tree while I tell him about the day Datt and I planted it. How proud I’d been when the buds came that first spring. I want to walk the fields with him and show him where the fallen log was that I took our old plow horse over when I was thirteen years old. I want to show him the pond where I caught my first bass. The same pond that saw Jacob and I duke it out over a hockey game. He might have been older and bigger, but he didn’t fight dirty; not when it came to me, anyway. I, on the other hand, was born with the killer instinct he lacked, and he was usually the one who walked away with a black eye or busted lip. He never ratted on me, but I’ll never forget the way he looked at me all those times when he lied to our parents to protect me and was then punished for it. And I never said a word.
Tomasetti parks in the gravel area behind the house and shuts down the engine. The buggy that belongs to my sister, Sarah, and my brother-in-law, William, is parked outside the barn. As I get out of the Tahoe, I see my sister-in-law, Irene, come through the back door with a bread basket in one hand, a plastic pitcher in the other.
She spots me and smiles. “
Nau is awwer bsil zert,
Katie Burkholder!” Now it’s about time!
I greet her in Pennsylvania Dutch.
“Guder nammidaag.”
Good afternoon.
“Mir hen Englischer bsuch ghadde!”
she calls out. We have non-Amish visitors!
The screen door slams. I glance toward the house to see my sister, Sarah, coming down the porch steps juggling a platter of fried chicken and a heaping bowl of green beans. She wears a blue dress with an apron, a
kapp
with the ties hanging down her back, and nondescript black sneakers. “Hi, Katie!” she says with a little too much enthusiasm. “The men are inside.
Sie scheie sich vun haddi arewat.
” They shrink from hard work.
Irene sets the pitcher and basket on the picnic table, then spreads her hands at the small of her back and stretches. She’s wearing clothes much like my sister’s. A blue dress that’s slightly darker. Apron and
kapp.
A pair of battered sneakers.
“Alle daag rumhersitze mach tem faul,”
she says, referring to the men. Sitting all day makes one lazy.
“Sell is nix as baeffzes.”
That’s nothing but trifling talk.
At the sound of my brother’s voice, I glance toward the house to see him and my brother-in-law, William, standing on the porch. Both men are wearing dark trousers with white shirts, suspenders and straw summer hats. Jacob’s beard reaches midway to his waist and is shot with more gray than brown. William’s beard is red and sparse. Both men’s eyes flick from me to Tomasetti and then back to me, as if waiting for some explanation for his presence. It doesn’t elude me that neither man offers to help with the food.
“Katie.” Jacob nods at me as he takes the steps from the porch.
“Wie geth’s alleweil?”
How goes it now?
“This is John Tomasetti,” I blurt to no one in particular.
Next to me, Tomasetti strides forward and extends his hand to my brother. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Jacob,” he says easily.
While the Amish excel at letting you know you are an outsider—which is usually done for some redemptive purpose, not cruelty—they can also be kind and welcoming and warm. I’m pleased to see all of those things in my brother’s eyes when he takes Tomasetti’s hand. “It’s good to meet you, too, John Tomasetti.”
“Kate’s told me a lot about you,” Tomasetti says.
William chuckles as he extends his hand.
“Es waarken maulvoll gat.”
There’s nothing good about that.
A giggle escapes Sarah. “Welcome, John. I hope you’re hungry.”
“I am.”
I make eye contact with Tomasetti. He winks, and some of the tension between my shoulder blades unravels.
Neither woman offers her hand for a shake. Instead they exchange nods when I make the introductions.
When the silence goes on for a beat too long, I turn my attention to my sister. “Can I help with something?”
“Setz der disch.”
Set the table. Sarah glances at Tomasetti and motions toward the picnic table.
“Sitz dich anna un bleib e weil.”
Sit yourself there and stay awhile. “There’s lemonade, and I’m about to bring out some iced tea.”
Tomasetti strolls to the table and looks appreciatively at the banquet spread out before him. “You sure you trust me with all this food?”
Jacob chortles.
“There’s more than enough for everyone,” Irene says.
William pats his belly. “Even me?”
A gust of wind snaps the tablecloths, and Jacob glances toward the western horizon. “If we’re going to beat the storm, we’d best eat soon.”
Irene shivers at the sight of the lightning and dark clouds.
“Wann der Hund dich off der buckle legt, gebt’s rene.”
When the dog lies on his back, there will be rain.
While Tomasetti and the Amish men pour lemonade and talk about the storms forecast for later, I follow the women into the kitchen. I’d been nervous about accepting today’s invitation from my brother because I didn’t know what to expect. I had no idea how they would respond to me and Tomasetti or the fact that we’re living together with no plans to get married. To my relief, no one has mentioned any of those things, and another knot of tension loosens.
The kitchen is hot despite the breeze whipping in through the window above the sink. Sarah and I spend a few minutes gathering paper plates, plastic utensils, and sampling the potato salad, while Irene pulls a dozen or so steaming ears of corn from the Dutch oven atop the stove and stacks them on a platter. We make small talk, and I’m taken aback at how quickly the rhythm of Amish life returns to me. I ask about my niece and nephews, and I learn the kids walked to the pasture to show my little niece, who’s just over a year old now, the pond, and I can’t help but remember when that same pond was a fixture in my own life. I’d learned to swim in that pond, never minding the mud or the moss or the smell of fish that always seemed to permeate the water. Back then, I was an Olympian swimmer; I had no concept of swimming pools or chlorine or diving boards. I’d been content to swim in water the color of tea, sun myself on the dilapidated dock, treat myself to mud baths, and dream about all the things I was going to do with my life.