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It had started to snow again, which was both unfortunate and annoying. Luckily, the roads had been properly plowed, at least after Mr. Miller's truck was found in a ditch off Chance-Teller road and removed with a tow truck. Though he vehemently denied it, there were high suspicions that he had been intoxicated. It was highly amusing to Jacob that the social workers could be so irritated about children driving carts and buggies, but not about a drunken plow driver who could appear from the fog at any moment and destroy said buggy. Then again, their concerns might not have been so far-fetched.
Jacob drove the buggy slowly and carefully down the road, passing one or two cars along the way, but he was not concerned with being seen. From the outside, he could have looked like any Amish man driving down the road. In fact, by sitting far enough back, he could easily make it look as if no one were driving at all. Unfortunately, his intended destination was far more dangerous than the journey there.
He was, in fact, driving the buggy over to Deborah Weaver's house with plans to confront her father. Sherry had given him much to think about during their visit. What DID he have to stay for? What was the whole point of all this? He would have better opportunities in the city, to put it mildly, so why wasn't he there? It seemed silly. He could finish high school, maybe even go to college. When he had come to Hope Crossing, he had always planned on it being a temporary thing, until he could get out of here. Unless.
He took a left turn onto Chance-Teller Road and saw the remains of a guardrail where Mr. Miller had sailed through worshiping the grain alcohol gods, and continued forward until he came to the next fork in the road. He could see the Weaver residence from here despite the thick fog that was setting over Hope Crossing. He could also see a newly rebuilt barn, replacing the one that had burned down two years ago. He had paid dearly for that burning, though he maintained to this day that it wasn't his fault. In fact, he had no idea who had done it. What he did know, however, was that he had been blamed for the fire, and as a result, was banned from seeing Deborah.
Jacob wasn't the only one who felt the pain. Thomas was no longer able to avail of Mr. Weaver's more than adequate building skills, and he'd also managed to have Thomas banned from the hardware store in Hope Crossing. For even the most basic needs, they were forced to make a trip over to Chestnut Grove, which, according to Thomas, had the worst selection in the world, or at least the world, as he knew it. Maybe today, Jacob could set all of that straight or at least he desperately hoped.
As the buggy came close to the house, he saw the front door open gradually, and Mr. Weaver stepped out, buttoning his coat and taking a stance on the front porch. It was as if he'd expected this to happen. Jacob signaled for the horses to stop and dismounted the buggy, trudging across the snowy ground toward Mr. Weaver, who was waiting expectantly on the porch.
“You have some nerve boy,” Mr. Weaver's voice boomed across the frozen tundra. “Coming onto my property after what you did.”
“First of all, Mr. Weaver, respectfully, I didn't burn down your barn.”
Mr. Weaver came off the porch in a flash, practically running toward Jacob, but stopped when he was within about a foot of the boy.
“Do you take me for a fool?” he demanded.
“No, sir, I never took you for a fool,” Jacob said as he considered backing up a bit. But to back up would indicate fear, and fear would look like guilt. Better to plant himself and prepare for a hit if it were to come.
“But you think I really believe you burned down that barn? I just blamed you for it boy, to keep you away from my daughter.” Mr. Weaver spoke softly almost whispering, then laughed louder and spat on the ground as he finished. At first, Jacob couldn’t believe what he was hearing. For over two years he had been blamed by the Hope Crossing community; the closest thing he had to a family stained by this lie the man before him so readily admitted to.
“You lied to me – to everyone?” Jacob’s voice was quiet; he should have felt pride at the way he was reacting, but it wasn’t so much self-control that kept his tone low, that kept his voice quiet. It was anger, ne, rage. This man had calculating and with malice and forethought ruined his reputation in Hope Crossing. And, he had gotten away with it, because he was respected and accepted as a real Amish man in the community. “I knew it was an accident when I said it, but my daughter is a determined young lady, and desperate measures call for desperate actions.” He leaned back on his heels almost bouncing with glee. “You are an outsider, boy. I will not have my daughter marrying Englischer scum like you. You are here because Thomas Mast is a fool; he has a soft spot, and I cannot, ne, I will not let his weakness leak over and damage my daughter. She will marry the right man, and as God is my witness, it will not be you.”
“You couldn't have just asked?” Jacob said, not really joking. “How about you do not question me on my own property?”
“How about you let Deborah do what she wants?” His temper was getting the best him. He really wanted to hit this man, but he had really learned from Thomas that violence wasn’t the way. “You know what Proverbs 13:5 says. You will come to shame. What is done in the dark always comes to the light no matter how long it takes. And, not just what you have done to me, but to the Masts who are decent, hardworking Amish family. I can take it that you loathe and despise me; I am used to people hating me. My own parents abandoned me. The Masts, however, have done nothing to you or your family.”
As Jacob spoke, he felt the moistness on his cheek; he hated showing this weakness to a man who wanted nothing but what the rest of the world wanted for him, who thought he was dirt – nothing, less than nothing. He turned away from Mr. Weaver, because he knew that if he continued to stand there, he would have to hit him, which would prove Weaver’s point about his lack of worth, or he would cry like a baby. Both option was a good one, and he wanted to get as far away from him as fast as his legs would carry him. “Listen here,” Mr. Weaver said as he walked away, “my girl is going to grow up here, at home, and she is going to be a good Amish girl. She is going to obey her parents, love the Lord, do her chores and give us strong, Amish grandchildren. I am not going to let some filthy English boy come over and take her away.”
Jacob wanted to hit him, to spray his teeth across the porch. Red looks so pretty on the snow, and his blood would splatter across it if he simply punched wildly. Instead, he opted for the biblical approach, and as hard as it felt, he turned the other cheek. Tears streamed down his cheeks; he kept his back to Mr. Weaver so that he wouldn’t see them. He got as far his buggy when he saw her. Deborah was standing at the edge of the cornfield. Had she heard everything? Had she known that her father had lied? The tears in her eyes were overshadowed by the black eye she was trying to hide from him. He walked toward her, and heard Mr. Weaver screaming at him.
“Stay away from my daughter,” he shouted, but Jacob kept walking toward you.
A hand that felt like a sledgehammer came down on his shoulder just as he reached her.
“Daed, please. Do not hurt him.”
“Keep your nose out of this and where it belongs, Deborah.” Mr. Weaver growled, refusing to take his attention away from Jacob.
He noticed that she was limping a bit. Suddenly it made sense – all of it. This was the reason she wouldn't see him, the reason she’d stayed inside the school when he came over. It all made sense! Had her father been hitting her...because of...the kiss?
“What did you do to her?” Jacob realized his voice had risen; it sounded squeaky which would have been funny under other circumstances. Right now, it just betrayed his anger and fear. “Did you hit her?!.”
“What a man does with his daughter is his own business,” Mr. Weaver stated looming over him. “You have about ten seconds to get off my property before I give you a beating, too.”
Before he realized it, Jacob threw a punch, hitting Mr. Weaver square in the jaw and knocking him back about two feet. No one, not even Mrs. Weaver watching from the second floor window expected it to happen, especially when Mr. Weaver was a full head taller than Jacob. It didn't knock him over, but it certainly surprised him.
“How could you give your daughter a black eye?” Jacob screamed at him. “What is wrong with you? She’s a girl!” Chivalry was not dead in Hope Crossing; you don’t beat up on girls.
“Boy,” Weaver snarled, “you have no idea what you're getting yourself into.”
“Ya,” Jacob said. “I do. I am going to stop this crap once and for all. You're not going to—”
He never saw it coming. Mr. Weaver lunged forward and punched Jacob in the face, hard enough to knock him down. It felt as if that same sledgehammer had struck his jaw. He landed face down in the snow, and for a moment, could hear nothing but the pounding inside his head.
“You done yet boy?” Mr. Weaver asked. “You ready to get off my property with whatever dignity you got left?”
In response, Jacob stood, and assumed a fighting stance, or at least what he thought was a fighting stance. He moved forward, and all at once found himself on the ground again, having not seen the punch coming. Who was this man? Where did he learn to fight? Jacob pulled himself to his feet once again, but this time swayed and dropped to his knees, supporting himself with one hand pressed flatly against the snow. He stared down as a pool of blood formed, dripping from his broken nose.
“I'll say it again boy,” Mr. Weaver said, “you aren't good enough for my daughter. You never will be. Now get off my property, do not come back. Next time, you filthy, little Englischer, I'll shoot you for trespassing.”
Moments later, Jacob was alone on the lawn. He fell onto his side, his head pounding. He once again pushed himself to his knees and made his way to the buggy. With any luck, the horse would know the way home.
Jacob staggered into his buggy, and turned it away from the Weaver house flicking the reins to trot quickly in the opposite direction. When he was near the road and far from the Weaver home, he pulled over to the side and let the pain out in quiet sobs. He wore the clothes; he worked the land, but to people like the Weavers, he was “that filthy, Englischer boy.” Sherry’s proposal was sounding better and better. He got back on the road and headed back to the Masts.
***
“So if I understand this proper,” Thomas said, sitting across the kitchen table, “you went to the Weavers and punched Mr. Weaver...in the face...and then...”
“And then this happened,” Jacob confirmed, nodding. “Ow!” “Sorry dear,” Dorothy said as she tended to Jacob's wounds.
“You've got quite a cut here above your eye.”
“I want to ask you a question,” Thomas said. “And I want you to answer me truthfully, so I get an idea of what was going through your mind.”
“He's been hurting Deborah,” Jacob said. When the words left his mouth, he expected some kind of reaction, maybe an audible gasp, or perhaps a look of disgust, but his comment garnered no such thing.
“Jacob,” Thomas said, “What a man does with his own daughter is his business so long as it's done in a Christian manner. The good Book says spare the rod, spoil the child.”
“You never punched me in the face, and I was plenty bad in the beginning. You spanked me once, and while I didn’t like it, I wasn’t limping with a black eye. You call that Christian?”
“If you haven't noticed,” Thomas said, “I'm a very busy man. If I hit you for every silly mistake you made, we would run out of switches. In addition, you seem to learn from your own mistakes without much correction. Except for this time, maybe.”
“I think he learned not to hit Mr. Weaver,” Dorothy pointed out. “Maybe, I should talk to that child services lady,” Jacob said. “She could help.”
“Let me ask you a question,” Thomas said. “How often have you seen Deborah in town or out on her own?”
“Plenty, why?”
“If she thought she were being treated unfairly, don't you think she would have gone for help by now? Is there any reason for you to stick your nose into it?”
“But I—”
“What?” Thomas demanded. “You think you love her? You're fourteen—”
“Fifteen,” Jacob hissed, “and this has nothing to do with my feelings for her.”
“You don't know anything about love. You do not know anything about life. Sure, we brought you into our lives, and I do not regret it, but it is different here. Traditions are different; people are different. The sooner you learn that, the sooner you will fit in, if that is your aim.”
“It might not be,” Jacob recalled the conversation he'd had with Sherry earlier.
“Making plans?” Thomas asked. “There is this girl, from my old life—”
“Sherry, the one who got emancipated,” Thomas said, nodding. He had a slight smile, the one he used when he knew something and was just waiting for it to come up in conversation.
“How do you know that?”
“I'm your guardian; it is my job to know,” Thomas said, “and you don't need to feel bad for going if you need to. You had loyalties there long before here.”
“But what about hell, and fire, and brimstone?” Jacob asked. He'd been told repeatedly that leaving the Amish community would result in death, hell, damnation, and in some cases an everlasting lack of Rocky Road ice cream, which was unacceptable in itself.
“Let me tell you a story,” Thomas said as he glanced out the kitchen window. “I was raised by my grandfather after my father passed away, and he told me something I will never forget. He told me...that long ago, in 1944, he was drafted for the war. You might not know about it; it is not the kind of thing they teach in schools these days. It was a war between the Axis and the rest of the world. No one got away from it, not even us. You know we do not like to fight, let alone kill, but they did not have a choice. He told me that amidst the hell on earth that he experienced over there, in the fields of France, and Germany, he found God. He realized that God isn't just in Hope Crossing, or Chestnut Grove. God is...wherever you believe he is, and you can take that with you, no matter where you go.”
“So, you're saying I won't go to hell for leaving.”
Thomas laughed. “Surely not, but don't tell anyone, I said that.
Especially not Mr. Weaver. “
“What should I do about my mother?” Thomas wondered aloud. “She's not leaving. She set up an insurance office in town.”
“I saw that!” Dorothy said, sitting down. “I wonder if the barn could use a policy!”
“Hey!”
“The world keeps spinning in spite of you,” Dorothy laughed. “Besides, your mother may very well have had good reason to leave you at that fire station.”
“No mother,” Thomas stated, “ever has a good reason to get rid of her kid. If she makes one, she should take care of it.”
“Why not tell that to Moses's mother?” Dorothy suggested. “He would have been killed had his mother not floated him down the river.”
“I think that was different,” Jacob argued. “It was a long time ago....”
“Ya,” Thomas said. “Times change, but people don't. I do not know if you have noticed, but people cause ninety percent of the problems in this world. If we would just treat each other fairly and with honesty, we might fare better, and that is all there is to it. You can start contributing to the solution yourself, one-step at a time, but do not play the blame game. It does no one any good.”
“I'll try to remember that,” Jacob said.
