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Jemima looked up into her father’s face fearfully. His expression reminded her of a huge, dark thunderhead just before a cloudburst.
“Daed–”
“Silence!” he barked, and she closed her mouth and looked down at her shoes.
They were standing out on the front lawn; he, with his massive arms crossed, and she, wishing she could make herself invisible. The mangled truck door was lying on the ground, just as it had fallen when her father had pulled it off of Brad William’s truck.
Her father took a deep breath, and seemingly, got a new grip on his patience. “Now, Jemima,” he said evenly, “we are going inside, and you are going to explain to your mother, and to me, why you did not go to your aunt’s, as you told us. And where you were all day. And why you came back here in the company of an Englisch reporter.” His voice gathered bass undertones, like a giant organ. “And why–”
Jemima raised her eyes. There were tears in them, and her lips were quivering. “Oh, Daed,” she cried, “I’m sorry! But you don’t understand! It was the will of God!”
He raised his brows, and tilted his head slightly, as if he mistrusted his ears.
“Oh, yes – if you’ll only let me explain!” Jemima cried earnestly.
“You’ll have plenty of chance to do that, young lady,” he promised her grimly, and took her arm. He marched her up the front steps, and across the porch, and into the house. The screen door slammed behind them.
“Rachel!” he called. “Come and see what your daughter has done!”
Rachel King came down the stairs, her face a question mark. Jemima burst into tears, her mother held out her arms, and she went into them, sobbing.
Rachel met her husband’s eyes over Jemima’s head.
Her husband responded as if he had been severely rebuked. “Now, Rachel, it’s no use to give me that look. You don’t know what’s just happened!”
“I know that our daughter is in tears, Jacob,” she replied softly, looking down at Jemima’s face. “What did you say to her?”
Her husband looked wounded. “Me? I am upholding standards in this house. Our daughter did not go to her aunt’s house, as she told us. She has been somewhere else, all day long. I walked out into the yard just now to see her in the arms of a strange boy – an Englisch reporter!”
Rachel pulled back from her daughter and stared up into her face. “Jemima, is that true?”
Jemima nodded, and burst out into fresh tears.
Rachel looked at her husband again, and this time her eyes held worry. “Come, sit down at the table, Jemima,” she said, and put an arm around her. “You can tell us what happened. We aren’t angry, are we, Jacob?”
Her husband rolled his eyes, and threw up his hands, but followed her without objection.
Rachel helped Jemima into a chair, and then took one beside her. “Now, Jemima, tell us what happened,” she urged.
Jemima sobbed into her apron. “When, when I went to the store a few months ago,” she gulped, “and bought the little clock for Deborah, I found a piece of paper in it,” she stuttered. “It was a l-letter.”
“The letter you showed me?” her father interjected.
Jemima nodded. “Two Englischers came here to ask me about the letter. One of them wanted to buy it, and the other was the reporter.” She was shaken by another gust of tears.
“It was a letter from George Washington. The reporter said it was worth a lot of money, and I should have someone look at it.”
“And you gave it to him?” her mother asked.
Jemima looked up at her, her beautiful eyes swimming. “I tried to give it to the reporter,” she whispered, “but he gave it back, and said he had showed it to the appraisers, and that it was worth a fortune!”
Rachel looked quickly at her husband, and he leaned close.
“Jemima – are you telling us that you – that you sold the letter?”
Jemima nodded, and burst out into guilty sobs.
Her parents looked at each other. Jacob leaned back in his chair, dumbfounded, and Rachel looked down at the table in stunned silence before recovering.
“Was that why you were with the Englischer?”
Jemima nodded. “He took me to the auction house today,” she sniffed, and wiped her eyes. “I watched the people bidding on it, and they just wouldn’t stop. They went on and on, until the letter sold.” She looked up at her mother woefully.
“One million six hundred thousand dollars!” she whispered.
Jacob King burst out into startled German, and his wife covered her mouth with one hand. Their eyes met over Jemima’s head.
There was a long, pregnant silence. Jacob took a deep breath and went on, slowly: “You still haven’t explained, Jemima King, why I saw you with the Englischer, doing what no good Amish girl should do with a boy she doesn’t know?”
Jemima’s lips trembled. “It was just – he – was so understanding,” she stammered, “and so helpful, and he didn’t take the letter for himself when he could have, that I–”
Jacob nodded grimly. “Ha! An Englischer trick, to gain your trust! What did I tell you, Jemima, when you first found the letter? You would have done better to listen. Now, we must go to the bishop with this news of the letter, and see what he will say.”
His eye returned to his errant daughter. “And why did you tell me it was the will of God?” he asked.
Jemima shook her head. “The Sunday after I got the news that the letter was worth so much, the preacher said, What if a miracle happened? What if I had a million dollars and kept it back from the poor? And I thought that God was speaking to me. And that He meant me to sell this letter. And to give the money to help the people who need it, like Adam Yoder, and his parents.”
Jemima’s mother reached for her, and took her into her arms. She looked at her husband through swimming eyes, and kissed her daughter’s hair. “There, you see Jacob, her heart was right. I think that was a fine thing to do, Jemima. You’re not in trouble. Everything will be all right, you’ll see. Now go up to your bedroom, and wash, and get ready for bed.”
Jemima sniffed, and dried her eyes, and looked up gratefully at her mother, and timidly at her father, and retreated.
After she had gone, Jacob crossed his arms and looked at his wife ruefully. “What good does it do for me to try to have discipline in this house, Rachel, when you pet our children so?”
His wife looked at him affectionately. “I know you, Jacob King,” she smiled serenely. “You feel the same as I do, and you’re right to try to keep them safe. But Jemima did no wrong.”
“No wrong? You didn’t see her, she was kissing that Englischer as if he was the last young man on earth. I don’t know who he is, but it’s plain he has designs on her – and the money he thinks he can get out of her! I don’t want Jemima’s life to be ruined and her heart broken, by some–”
His wife shook her head. “But Jacob, it’s her rumspringa. It isn’t good, I know, but if we make too big a fuss, we make it into something bigger than it is, maybe. Jemima has three healthy young Amish boys who are in love with her. One of them will make her forget this Englisch boy, you’ll see.”
“Well–”
“And the money, Jacob,” his wife insisted, leaning toward him – “we must tell the bishop, yes, but Jemima hasn’t joined the church yet, and she isn’t bound to do what we would. The money is hers, Jacob. We can’t force her to do anything with it.”
Her husband looked at her grimly. “She’s a 17-year-old girl, Rachel. She doesn’t understand how to deal with money wisely. Do you want to see your daughter in Englisch clothes, and wearing makeup, or buying a television – or a car?”
His wife frowned, and shook her head. “No, Jacob,” she replied simply. “But we must trust her, and trust God. He will help her to do the right thing.”
Her husband’s expression softened and he threw up his hands. “This is why I never win an argument with you, my Rachel,” he sighed, and then leaned over and kissed her ruefully.
