Crossing Over (5 page)

Ottie didn't make it any easier. He began bringing me gifts from the road, including beautiful—and expensive—crystal swans.

I'd hide the swans in my chest of drawers; certainly, my parents would consider them inappropriate gifts. But just like my feelings for Ottie, I knew where the swans were.

They were never more than an inch or two from my heart.

Eight

Ottie, how could you do this to us? . . . You took her so she could not keep her promise to teach school again and her promise to the church on bended knees. We took you in as a trusted friend, tried to help you in time of sickness, and trusted you as a friend. Now you proved yourself not worthy of the trust at the cost of our darling daughter Irene.

—L
ETTER FROM
M
OM

K
alona is the kind of place where everyone knows everyone else's business and, even if they don't, they want to. It's a place where neighbors know who the owner is when a dog barks, where Midwestern values—and provincialism—are protected fiercely.

It's also a tourist landing where thousands alight each year to see the Amish farms on the town's outskirts—and the more modest Amish dwellings within the city limits, where horses graze in the fenced backyards of some homes.

People come for the three-day quilt show and sale in late April, the Kalona Fall Festival in September, and the Kalona Historical Village, a collection of restored nineteenth-century buildings. Every Monday, they venture to the Kalona Sales Barn, where the proprietors offer horses, cows, sheep, and the like.

There are the downtown staples like Reif's Family Center, Yotty's Hardware, and the weekly
Kalona News,
and the quaint-sounding businesses like Miller's Medicine Cabinet, the Wooden Wheel quilt shop, and Ellen's Sewing Center. A stone's throw from the sales barn is Kalona Blacksmith & Welding, where the owner hangs a metal sign by the front door when he leaves. “Out on call,” it says.

Just outside town, people can buy curds and such from the Kalona Cheese Factory, which proudly claims it will ship anywhere.

Hills Bank has a diminutive white clock tower that nevertheless is the tallest structure in town. If that's not enough to keep people on time, an air-raid siren goes off at noon every day. People set their clocks by it, especially the Amish, whose timepieces are powered by batteries or pendulum.

Visitors are just as apt to see an Amish buggy and horse affixed to a hitching rail as they are a car parked in one of the downtown's diagonal spaces. In Kalona, the natives like to say, the English and Amish coexist harmoniously, one living in the twenty-first century, the other a hundred or more years in the past.

Residents call it the heart of Iowa's Amish country, and boast that the seven hundred Amish inhabitants make up the largest such settlement west of the Mississippi. The town also goes by another moniker: “Quilt Capital of Iowa.”

The Amish were the first to settle in Kalona, arriving along the banks of the English River (oddly enough) in 1846. The area was nameless then. In 1879, it became Bulltown, after a successful shorthorn breeding service. Later, it became Kalona, the name of the service's famous registered sire.

It was a truly bucolic, out-of-the-way burb until the 1950s, when Highway 1 was paved, providing easier access to and from Iowa City. Ottie says construction crews used creek gravel in the pavement mix; hence, the unusual pink hue.

The highway brought more English—some from foreign continents—to Kalona, and some people stayed. Kalona's growth challenged its pastoral ambience, but the larger the town grew—to more than 2,000, by some estimates—the more determined it became to preserve its heritage.

The town's original motto speaks to its desire to meld tradition and progress: “Big enough to serve you, small enough to know you.”

It was in this fish bowl that Ottie and I existed. Known by everyone. Watched by the English and Amish alike.

We developed a system of glances that would let the other know we were thinking of them. Ottie, meanwhile, kept bringing gifts. Flowers sometimes, or chocolate truffles that he would cleverly share with the rest of the family.

I continued baking him goodies.

Ottie, formally separated from his wife for eight months now, had moved into a two-bedroom, gray bungalow on Kiwi Avenue off Highway 1. The house, which he rented for five hundred dollars a month, stood alone, surrounded by corn fields and a spotting of poplar and pine.

He arranged to have me work for him weekends, tidying his house, dusting and cleaning, doing paperwork, and tending to the garden. A mountainous man with a cane doesn't get around easily.

He also hired my sister Bertha and several of my brothers to mow the lawn and paint the fence, although they were more my chaperones than Ottie's employees.

The best part of the arrangement was being paid a princely sum of five dollars an hour, ostensibly to be closer to Ottie. The worst part was the temptation.

And this time, it was me who took the lead. In February 1996, I stopped to do some work at his house—and to secretly leave him a present. I had cooked a container of popcorn and included with it several Hershey's Kisses. It was my unspoken way of hinting I wanted a kiss.

The next weekend, Ottie asked me about the chocolate drops. When he saw my face flush, he knew.

While Benedict shoveled snow out front, Ottie moved toward me, softly kissed my lips, and stood back, waiting for a reaction—one he would never see. Although my insides were instantly consumed by a fluttering giddiness, I was stiff as a board on the outside, and for him it must have been like kissing a rock. I didn't move. I didn't close my eyes. I didn't even open my mouth.

When you've never been kissed before, you don't know how to react. You don't know about tongues, and opened mouths, and sharing saliva. In my case, the only comparisons were the holy kisses among the men and women at church. The tight-lipped holy kisses.

Nevertheless, the moment broke another barrier, and our complex series of clandestine signals grew by one. Added to the repertoire of knowing winks and smiles was a tug on the ear lobe. If either of us did it, it meant we wanted a kiss.

We also began teasing each other behind my parents' backs—and in the process threatening to have them, and others, discover us. Ottie would occasionally tweak my behind when he walked by, startling me enough to make me jump.

I was just as game. Once, when my mother and father were in their bedroom, I walked up to him in the kitchen and planted a firm kiss on his cheek. He later told me: “All I could think about was Alvin coming around the corner and saying, ‘What's this!' And what would I do? I can't run.”

Another time, while we were eating dinner at my family's house, I began massaging his foot with mine under the table. Ottie was at one end of the table and my father at the other and they were engaged in conversation. Ottie became so flustered that he began stammering. Later he would tell me: “Irene, that wasn't funny!”

But it was. For both of us.

It was also exciting. And frightening again.

I began praying more in private, occasionally in my closet. I had read that if one does that, God will reward you.

Matthew 6:5–6: “And when thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men. Verily I say unto you, they have their reward.

“But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.”

Always, I would ask God to lead me in the right direction. Often, I would cry because I was filled with so much confusion. How would I know if it was God or the devil that was taking me down this path? How would I ever sort out the scriptures that seemed to both doom and support such a relationship?

Putting my faith in God allowed me some breathing room. But at the same time, the relationship grew deeper.

We began slipping each other notes, putting into writing what we had previously only said or signaled or acted upon.

I put one note in a container of banana bread I had left in our oversized silver mailbox. Ottie was preparing for another trip, and I told him he should stop by the mailbox when he headed out of town around 2:00
A.M
.

Dear Ottie:

Please don't let anyone see this note. Here is your banana bread and I'm so sorry we couldn't persuade dad to go along.

It hurts me, but remember, I'm going to miss you and think about you every day. I really hope you have good luck to make this trip worthwhile for you.

Ottie, I'm going to be awake when you pick up the banana bread. If no one is along, you could whistle and I'll whistle back. (To say “bye.”)

How I would want to meet you by the mailbox and talk, but I was afraid I'd be heard going out, so I thought it better I wouldn't.

Don't whistle if you don't want me to whistle. But I'll be watching.

Love, Irene

Ottie later slipped me this note:

My Dearest Love,

My heart aches to be with you. My arms want and need to hold you close and take care of you.

I wish nothing but to hold and comfort you and take care of you all the time. My every thought is of you and only you.

I can only pray that some day I'll be able to do all of these things for you.

In dreams, all my love and kisses,

Yours truly,
OG

His mention of “in dreams” referred to a Roy Orbison melody that had become our song. The melancholy ballad tells of a star-crossed couple who can only be together in dreams. Like us, pretty much.

Whenever we were in the van, Ottie would play the song. None of the other passengers knew its significance. But we did.

Sometimes, Ottie would also give me cute little cards with short messages. One said on the front: “Next time you're admiring all the wonderful things God has made . . .” It continued inside: “Remember that you're one of them.” Another had a touching picture of two swans floating breast to breast. Ottie wrote on that one: “Sometimes there are no words.”

The first time Ottie told me he loved me, I thought: Why would anyone feel the need to say anything like that? Love, after all, is not used in that context among the Amish.

The second time he told me he loved me, he proposed.

“Let's leave,” he said. “Let's get married.”

“I can't,” I told him, “because I'm Amish. I can't because I can't leave my mother or the rest of my family.”

“Okay,” he said, joking. “I'll stay here in Iowa and wait for you. I'll wait until you're twenty-five, and then I'll have to kidnap you.”

“You don't have to kidnap me,” I said.

And we both laughed.

But privately, I was in pieces.

I had written Ottie before about my conflicting emotions, so my reluctance was no surprise. It must have been frustrating for him, though.

My Dearest One:

I wonder what you're doing tonight with these many miles between us. I'm crying my heart out for you. I don't know what else to do except cry and pray.

This morning when you were here, you seemed so sad. I felt so sorry for you, how things are going, that I wanted to put my arms around you and comfort you. I love you so much, Ottie! I know how you feel and, oh, it feels like my heart is being ripped out. To think of you leaving and I can't go with you is almost more than I can bear.

What am I supposed to do? How can I leave Mom when I know she will be blamed, abused, scolded, and maybe even hurt because of me.

There was one time when he was so angry, I became uneasy that he might seriously harm her. Later, I asked her if she's afraid that would happen sometime. She admitted she is afraid and cannot sleep if he walks “stealthy-like” through the house when he's so angry. She cannot sleep until he is also in bed and she knows he is sleeping. That scares me. . . .

I'll sort of have to see how things go to know what I'll do. But please remember, my love for you will never die! The red rose I pinned on your shirt will never fade—so is my love for you! I love you, Ottie!

Hugs and kisses,
Lovingly yours,
Irene

What I didn't know then—but do now—is that I'd already committed to Ottie. I was caught in a vortex of passion from which there was no return.

Nine

Irene, you vowed in your baptism before God and the church that you would be a building and an uplifting church member. Are you helping build up the Amish church? Are you being a help to the younger generation?

—L
ETTER FROM
B
ENEDICT

M
y grandfather, the one who had hired Ottie, died of pneumonia in May 1996. He had been one of the most powerful Amish men in Kalona, and not so much because he'd been a minister and a national Amish steering committee member. His truly important possessions were lots of money and all of the contiguous land east and south of town.

When he'd go to the bank, people would joke that T. J. was lending money to the institution. Sometimes, money and land holdings speak more than position among the Amish.

I liked my grandfather well enough, although I never felt particularly close to him. I remember he used to call me Ruthy and tease me a lot, especially about boys and such. But I don't remember us ever having meaningful conversation, and he was stern and unforgiving like my father.

He was buried alongside my brother and sister—Tobias and Miriam—beneath a stone almost twice the size of theirs. “Tobias J. Miller,” it reads. “April 23, 1913, May 18, 1996, 83 Y., 25 D, Gone But Not Forgotten.”

I wrote a poem to be read at his funeral. It was more for the benefit of others than for myself:

Dear husband, father, grandfather,

It is hard to see you go,

It was hard to see you linger,

And to see you suffer so.

 

Father, we have many memories,

How you helped in work and play,

Precious memories always linger,

Of our happy childhood days.

 

You have helped so many people,

Always willing, a hand to lend,

You have labored hard and long,

For family, church, and many a friend.

 

Jesus saw you growing weary,

So he sent an angel bright,

Softly whispered, “Come with me,”

To the realms of pure delight.

 

Dear grandfather, how we miss you,

And our hearts are sore with grief,

But we trust that you are resting,

In his arms of sweet relief.

 

Rest forever, rest in peace,

For your work on earth is done,

May we all meet you in heaven,

Where there is no setting sun.

My family chose not to use the poem at the services, picking instead some other published passages. And that was okay with me.

Although I felt sadness that day, his death was more a benchmark of my roller-coaster life. Things were moving so fast I could scarcely breathe.

Ottie's divorce had become final in April 1996, removing the stigma of being attracted to a married man. But when the notice appeared in the newspaper, people within the Amish community became suspicious about his intentions.

My father told me I'd have to stop working at Ottie's house. “That's gotta quit,” he said, scowling. My deacon vowed to talk to me if I didn't comply. Meanwhile, Amish who had been using Ottie as a driver began telling him they no longer needed his services.

My oldest brother, Elson, also planned to intervene.

“I was going to talk to Irene about the connection they had,” he would later say. “I saw some love there that was not supposed to be—a young girl like that falling in love with a guy that age, you know.”

One of my uncles even got into the act. He spread information around the Amish community that he had seen Ottie and me look at each other in an intimate way.

Truth be told, it was more than just the divorce feeding the frenzy. It was us.

When Ottie was out of town, I'd use a phone tucked in a barn along the way to school to dial the motel numbers he'd left for me.

When he was in from the road, we'd meet before school—he in the van, me in the buggy. We'd pass along Johnson-Washington County Road about 7:00
A.M
. and stop at a little dip where we thought no one could see us. We'd talk briefly, then move on.

Sometimes, if we mustered enough courage, we'd also meet at the school before the children arrived at 8:00
A.M
.

Our after-school rendezvous were riskier still. I'd drive the buggy into town and hitch it inside a white shed off A Place, little more than an alley between 4th and 5th streets. Ottie would come down A Place in his van about 4:30
P.M
. and I'd jump in the back and lie down until we were out of town and out of sight.

We'd drive south, traverse the English River on an old, one-lane iron bridge, and find a place to park in the country, where we'd talk mostly. About our separate lives. About Ottie's travels.

One of my strongest memories is the time he described driving west on the flatlands of eastern Colorado and seeing what looked like a long, gauzy band of clouds on the horizon.

“But what they were, when you got closer, were the Rocky Mountains—the most spectacular range of peaks in North America,'' he said. “Snow-capped sentries that seem like they go on forever.”

“I would love to see them one day,” I said.

“I would love to be there with you when you do.”

On the days when we met up at A Place, I'd tell my family I was late getting home because I'd gone downtown to buy school supplies. Notebooks, paper, pencils, and the like.

That meant we had to time everything meticulously. We figured forty-five minutes was the most we could spend together before Ottie drove back to town and dropped me off. At 5:15
P.M
., I'd run into Reif's, buy the supplies, jump in my buggy, and head home.

There was the matter of getting it all done before the stores—and the town—closed at 6:00
P.M
. More important, dallying any longer would've surely raised suspicions.

As it turned out, we were not as careful as we'd thought. Word began filtering through the community that we had been seen once too often chatting in the middle of the road or conversing at the school.

Against this backdrop of intense surveillance, things were not getting any better at home. My father was executor of my grandfather's estate, and anytime my mother would ask him about it, she would be reprimanded. The tension that pervaded our house was unbearable.

Fortunately, a long-planned vacation was about to provide some relief—and then some. The week after my grandfather died, Bertha, I, and a cousin and her husband acting as chaperones set out with Ottie for a one-week trip that was to take us to Tennessee, Virginia, and Ohio. But when we got to Tennessee, Ottie, knowing I'd always longed to see palm trees and clear-blue tropical waters, mentioned Florida was within reach. So off we went to Key West.

We drove Duval Street from one end to the other, over and over, watching the drunks, the transvestites, the sidewalk artists, and the motley-attired crowds. When we tired of that, we traveled the fragrant side streets of small homes, scampering geckos and lovers kissing under giant, twisted tree limbs.

Many Amish might have considered it hell on earth, and it certainly was a side of the English world I couldn't have imagined in my wildest dreams. But the energy of the place was fascinating. And I was away from Kalona—and my father.

Later that night, after discovering we couldn't get a motel room in Key West on Memorial Day weekend, Ottie parked by the beach and we slept in the van until the big southern sun began its climb over the Atlantic. Ottie and I went for a walk on the beach that morning and watched the seagulls hover like helicopters in the breeze. We didn't hold hands, because Bertha and my cousin and her husband were watching from the van. We didn't even look at each other when we talked, lest someone should conclude we were acting too chummy.

But the stroll was nevertheless romantic, and Ottie told me it could be this way all the time—only better.

I knew what he meant.

On our way back from Key West, we stopped in Berlin, Ohio. Bertha, who like Ottie had always had trouble with her feet—arthritis, I think—wanted to see Dr. John, an Amish doctor who'd developed a good reputation for treating such ailments.

She had initially planned to stay only a day or two, but decided to stretch it to two weeks when she secured lodging with an Amish girl in nearby Sugar Creek. Ottie then arranged for Bertha to work during her visit at a printing company he had done business with.

It looked like Ottie and I would finally be able to spend some unsupervised, unhurried time alone.

Ottie had booked three rooms at the Berlin Village Inn. One for me, one for him, and one for my cousin and her husband. Bertha would have shared my room if she hadn't extended her stay.

Ottie told me ahead of time that if I didn't want to come down to his room that night, he'd understand.

“But if you do come down,” he said, “you're mine and you're staying the night.”

For the first time, I was free of apprehension. I had already asked for God's forgiveness—many times. And I was secure in the knowledge that I had amply demonstrated my trust in him.

Psalm 32:7–10: “Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance. I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way thou shalt go: I will guide thee with mine eye. Be ye not as the horse or as the mule, which have no understanding: whose mouth must be held in with bit and bridle, lest they come near unto thee. Many sorrows shall be to the wicked: but he that trusteth in the Lord, mercy shall compass him about.”

Maybe, I told God, what I'm about to do is a sin. Maybe, under any other circumstance, it is wicked. But I have prayed to you, and I have asked for your guidance, and here we are. How could something so sweet and true be so wrong, so misguided?

I put a housecoat over my nightgown, walked to Ottie's room, knocked softly, and looked around to make sure no one had noticed me, especially my cousin and her husband. When he opened the door and let me in, I felt like I was finally home.

We sat in bed for hours, clothes on, talking, embracing, holding hands, kissing, experiencing the aura of two beings as one. Then I took my head covering off and let my hair down—something Amish women reserve only for their husbands.

Ottie asked if he could brush my hair, I consented, and a spectrum of passion I had never felt before enveloped me. I could see the love and affection in Ottie's eyes as he ran the bristles through my hair. I could feel him gently caressing me with his other hand and lightly pressing his lips against the nape of my neck. I could hear him telling me he loved me and that he'd protect me.

At twenty-two I felt safe and secure, special and sublime.

And later, sometime in the middle of the night, when we'd lost track of time, the brush fell to the floor and we made love. Naturally. Unrehearsed. Unrushed. Without fanfare.

In the afterglow, a warm feeling of contentment washed over me, and we held each other for the rest of the night. Awake.

Neither one of us wanted the dawn to come.