When Joe had gone out to walk, it had been to escape the demons that consumed his sleep. The whisper on the summer breeze had called him to the old moonlit path. Walking through the tall grass made him think of Irene, and he remembered how the moon used to glisten on her hair.
When he saw Esther in the distance walking toward him, he became anxious. Her earlier words had hurt, but she’d been right. It should’ve made him angry with her, but instead it pulled him more toward her. Her surety. Her boldness. There was something in her that he’d never seen in another woman—not even Irene. Irene had been beautiful and kind, a breath of fresh air. He shouldn’t so easily forget his grief. Even though she’d been gone for four years, he’d been home only for a little over a week, and it seemed too soon for him to be drawn toward Esther or any woman for that matter.
When he touched her hair, he knew he wanted to kiss her. He hadn’t kissed a woman since Irene despite the opportunity and temptation while overseas. He’d never before been so ravenous for touch and warmth. It was an unexpected sensation that got stronger the nearer Esther was to him. Was it because he wanted to feel more alive? He didn’t think so. He didn’t feel more alive now than at war, where death was so entwined with life. His body had reacted as a man’s would to the nearness of a woman. Had hers also responded to his touch? The guilt of it brought him to his knees once he got back to his house.
“Stop, Garrison. Just stop,” he scolded himself. Did he want Esther, or just a woman? Either way, how could he be so disloyal to Irene? He shook his head and stood.
Learning that Daisy was having nightmares had only heightened the moment between them. He and his daughter did have something in common: they both had nightmares. Knowing he was the cause of them, however, struck him like a bullet in the darkness. The unexpected blow broke his resilience. He wept that night as he fell asleep for everything he’d lost and for what he’d caused.
Joe awoke hours later. His feet were in moonlight that streamed through the window, and he was standing in his living room. The quiet, mixed with his heavy breathing, reminded him of a ghost story from long ago. It was a warm night and his undershirt clung with sweat to his chest and back. Why was he standing there?
His hand went to wipe away the dampness from his brow, but the movement came with a clanging sound on the wood floor. His reaction was quick and animalistic, and he found himself crouched on the floor like a wildcat. The fireplace poker was next to him. He’d dropped it. He had made the clanging noise. Why did he have the poker in his hand? Why was he standing in the middle of the living room? Why wasn’t he asleep in his bed?
He sat on the couch and rested his head in his hands. The last thing he remembered was falling asleep to the thudding of distant mortars that he couldn’t push from his mind. The cold gun held in his moist hands. Heavy breathing with sweat dripping down his face and onto his lips. Drinking a beer with his buddies on a ship between battles. Watching the enemy flying through the air, their bodies mangled. Death. Visions of Irene. Esther’s eyes. Then he was here—standing in his living room in the glow of the moon.
His breathing slowed, and instead of returning to his bed, he lay in the dark on the couch. What if Daisy had been there? What if he had hurt her in his sleep? He needed to stay awake to keep the haunting at bay.
But he did fall asleep and was startled awake when the sound of crashing metal and gravel burst through his fitful sleep. He bolted upright. The sun had risen. Where was he? Were the Japs close? No, they weren’t, but his breathing still quickened. He was in his house. In Sunrise.
Without thinking, he stood and walked through the front door and began running toward the sound. His heart slowed to a normal pace when he found that a cream-colored Ford had crashed into his mailbox. He ran toward the car, and a balding man with a mustache came stumbling out. He stumbled over his feet and rubbed his beer gut.
The man looked at the mailbox that tilted against the automobile. Joe was close enough now to hear the man swear.
“Are you okay?” Joe asked.
The man looked up at Joe. His eyes, round and startled, didn’t seem to focus well. There were empty beer cans inside the automobile. The man was drunk.
“I think I’m all right.” The man’s voice had an unusual twang to it. Where was he from, and who was he? The vehicle looked familiar, but Joe couldn’t place where he’d seen it.
“Looks like I might owe you a new mailbox.” The man rubbed his chin, looking over the damage.
“I can fix it easily enough.” Joe bent over and moved the mailbox off from the vehicle’s hood, revealing a long black scrape against the cream-colored Ford. “This a ’34 Victoria?”
“1932.” The man looked back over the damage. “I’m sorry ’bout this, son. I’m Chester Detweiler, but my friends call me Chet.”
“Detweiler?” Joe asked.
“That’s what I said.”
“You know Esther Detweiler?”
Chet inhaled and exhaled deeply before nodding yes. “I do. She’s my daughter.”
“I’m Joe Garrison. Daisy’s father.” Joe stood and walked over to Chet and put his hand out to him.
Chet reached out, but then the hand went to his head and the other arm went to steady himself on the car. Then he waved Joe’s hand away.
“Not much for formalities.” Chet laughed. “So you’re Joe. I think between the two of us, we’ve done a number on our little Essie, haven’t we?”
“Well, you’ve thrown me for a loop. I thought you were dead.”
Chet flipped his hands this way and that way as he looked them over.
“Nope. I’m alive.” He laughed.
Joe didn’t ask for clarification. All he could think of in the moment was that he’d almost kissed the man’s daughter in the moonlight only the night before. What would Chet have to say about that?
“Chester and Esther,” Joe said. “I suppose I never knew what your first name was.”
“Leah, Esther’s mother, insisted on the rhyming names since Esther wasn’t a boy.” Chet winked. “Kinda made me proud.”
“Is your Ford still going to run?” Joe gestured toward the vehicle.
“I think so. Only I can’t keep driving this baby around.”
“Why’s that?”
“You see, son, I’ve been gone for a while—from the Amish church. Came back when my old lady passed. I’m trying to get back into the church’s good graces, and I can’t have myself a car.”
“Then why were you heading home with the car just now?” Joe asked. This man wasn’t making much sense. Esther didn’t mention anything about her father living with her either. “Why didn’t Esther tell me you were back? Are you staying there?”
“You sure have a host of questions, son. Not sure I can follow them all.” Chet blinked rapidly. “Might’ve had a few too many. I guess I have to kick that ole habit also. But to answer at least one of your questions: No, I’m not living with Esther right now. I’m living at the dairy where I’m working, or at least I was, but I missed a milking last night and this morning. Pretty sure that Norma isn’t going to keep me on.” He rubbed the whiskers on his jaw with his hand that was missing the finger.
Joe sized up the other man. The Amish didn’t allow any recreational alcohol. He remembered Irene telling him that they used wine for communion, but that usually was their only exposure to alcohol. Joe had been curious about the goings on of the younger crowd in the church during what Irene called rumspringa. Irene hadn’t admitted to anything unsavory during these dating and running-around years, but he’d heard stories about some of the youth.
“You’re probably wondering why I’m drunk,” Chester suggested.
“Well, I did wonder. You shouldn’t be driving like that.” He gestured toward the beer cans in the car. “I don’t know a whole lot of Amish men who would be drinking that many cans of beer—or who own a car for that matter.”
“You’re right about that. I’m not so good of an Amish man, been gone so long. Hardly know how to be.” He wiped his forehead with a hanky that had the initials C.D. in the corner.
“I understand more than you know.”
“But I had a good reason for the drinking. I got whipped like a snot-nosed kid by the preachers yesterday and just had to get outta there—outta that house. But I had it comin’. I know I did. I felt the fire of hell on my backside one night in a dream and knew it was time to make a change.” He shook his head. “Gotta put this English life behind me, starting today, and start living the straight and narrow.” He sliced his hand in the air in front of him.
Joe didn’t respond. Why would a man like him come back anyway? Why not just stay away? Why give his English life up? It didn’t seem as if he wanted to anyway. Why give Esther the grief of his return after believing he was dead?
“You play poker?” Chet changed the subject. “Pretty sure I don’t have a job anymore, so I’m going to have to pay for my boarding room and some debts.” He mumbled the last few words. “Spent all my money last night at the local watering hole.”
“Never been much for poker. Do the Amish play poker?” He squinted his eyes at Chet.
“Oh, it’s just a little sin. They’ll never find out. Even the straight and narrow has a few dips in the road.” Chet clicked his tongue at Joe and winked.
Joe opened his mouth to respond, but Chet started talking again.
“You know, son, I think that this little accident might have been pure providence. I am looking to park my good ole Ford somewhere. Can’t have things like this if I mean to get on the good side of the church—you know, that straight and narrow.”
Joe and Chet said the last three words together and laughed as they both threaded a flat hand through the morning air.
“Besides, I owe a man some money and hiding my car away might not be a bad idea—you know, until I clear things up.” The older man cleared his throat and dug his toes into the gravel road. Then he looked up at Joe with sudden brightness. “I see you’ve got a big barn back behind your house. What would you say to parking it in your barn?”
Joe wondered what Esther would think about this. He didn’t know a lot about Chet or why he had suddenly come back after decades away. Chet must have noticed his trepidation and added, “You know, just until I can sell it. How ’bout it?”
“Sure. I think that would be fine.”
The two men rigged up the mailbox so that it would stay up until it could be fixed properly. The car started fine, and Joe had it in the barn in no time.
“Why don’t you come in for a cup of coffee and some breakfast?” Joe offered. “I’m checking on a job this morning. Maybe you’d like to ride along. I heard they are looking.”
“What kind of job?”
“Carpentry. There are some housing developments going up just outside town. It’ll be steady work.”
Chet’s head bounced up and down as he thought. “I think that might be just the ticket. I can still hold a hammer. Even with this.” He showed Joe the gap where his finger should be then clapped his hands. “Now, about that breakfast.”
Joe fixed both of them some eggs and coffee, and between the two, they ate nearly a dozen. Chet cleaned himself up with some cold water, and they were off in Joe’s truck.
“I have to make a quick stop at Esther’s before we go.” Joe pulled up to Esther’s house.
“You gonna squeal on me, are ya?” Chet raised his eyebrows. “She can’t know about the Ford.”
“No, sir,” Joe said, laughing. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
At first Joe stepped carefully as he walked toward the run-down house. He took in the wilted porch floor and the broken middle step. The house was somewhat dilapidated, but the small garden was planted in perfect rows without a single weed. If he’d not insisted, she would’ve cut all the grass herself. Across the road the same work waited for her, and on a larger scale. And for how much in wages? No wonder her house was in disrepair. Irene had told him that Esther was as good with a hammer and nails as a man, but with her job, caring for Orpha for years and then also Daisy, it was still too much for one woman. He hopped over the broken step onto the wilted porch and walked to the door.
He bit his lower lip as he lifted a closed hand to rap on the door but before his fist hit the door, it opened. Esther’s dark eyes were bigger than he remembered.
“Joe?” Her fingertips grazed over her lips for a beat before she looked around him toward his truck. Her eyes squinted. “Why is he in your truck?”
“I wanted to see you.” Joe leaned against the door frame, wanting to get closer to her. “Can I come in?”
“No.” Esther shook her head, and he could see her swallow as her eyes glanced around them. What was she worried about? “We can talk out here.”
She closed the door behind her and leaned against the opposite side of the door frame from Joe.
“I ran into your dad this morning—or he ran into me . . .” Joe tried to make light conversation.
“Don’t call him that,” Esther said.
“What?”
“Dad. He hasn’t been a dad to me since I was five. But that’s not why you are here. What do you want?” Her voice was breathy yet deep. Soft and hard. Light and dark. It was Esther.
“I wanted to talk about what happened last night.” Their closeness, their near kiss, had warmed his insides.
Esther’s eyes looked away. “Nothing happened.”
He shook his head at her dismissal.
“I know you thought I was drunk. But I wasn’t—not even close.” His hand went out to her, then remembering Chet in the truck behind him, it retreated back to his hip.
“I could smell—” she began then stopped, her face turning a bright blush. “I could smell—it—on your breath.”
“I had a few swallows before I left the house. Then I thought about what you said and I poured it out.” Joe felt an urgency in making her understand this. It had been a battle, since on the nights he had a beer his night terrors weren’t as destructive. Or maybe it was that he felt numb toward them. He couldn’t tell her that he was so plagued with horrifying memories that all he really wanted to do was get drunk and stay drunk until the memories faded. But what if they didn’t?
Esther crossed her arms and looked out toward the road. She didn’t believe him. He could prove it to her now by kissing her to show her that his desire to kiss her had nothing to do with a few sips of beer but rather a plaguing draw to her that he couldn’t explain. But he wasn’t prepared for the guilt he would feel. Besides, at the moment, they were standing on the front porch of her home. Anyone could see. Daisy was inside. And Irene was everywhere.
“I’m sorry.” Her eyes snapped to his and then softened as she turned away, biting her lower lip. “I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t drunk. And you weren’t either.”
“I don’t find that funny, Joe.”
“I’m not trying to be funny. My point is that neither of us was drunk, but we almost kissed each other. You can’t deny it.”
He stopped himself before he admitted that she was like a magnet to him. Was it because she’d been the closest person to Irene? Or was it because she was nothing like Irene? Was it simply because he’d deprived himself of the body and touch of a woman for too many years? He didn’t know. What he did know was that having her so close had awakened something that had been dormant since Irene’s death.