He was not happy about being back in Middlebury. His plan had been to stay in South Bend until at least Tuesday evening, maybe Wednesday. Then he’d seen the notice in the local paper about Owen’s funeral—front-page news because of the sensational way he’d done it. There weren’t too many murders with bows and arrows. It wouldn’t do for him to miss the funeral. Might arouse suspicion. Theirs was a fairly small community, and everyone was expected to turn out and support the family of the deceased.
He’d caught a ride back home with an old gent in a decrepit-looking pickup truck. Little chance their paths would ever cross again.
Now he sat in his buggy, in a long line of buggies, as they made their way toward Owen’s final resting place. A steady downpour obscured most everything around them. The rain was a blessing, though—would help the land and the animals. It would also help to cover any tracks he might have left on his errands.
“Terrible thing about Owen,” his wife said. The observation was delivered in a flat tone and with no expression at all. Typical.
“Ya, God has numbered each of our days.”
The words slipped out before he had a chance to consider them. As silence once again reclaimed the buggy, he realized that perhaps he’d hit on something. God did number each of their days. The psalmist proclaimed as much.
Did he have the power to overrule God? Nein. It wasn’t possible. So perhaps Owen would have died anyway—hit by a car or seized by a terrible illness.
Perhaps he had no reason to feel at fault.
Glancing toward her, he saw the pinched face and too-thin figure, and guilt flooded his heart, but not because of Owen. There were times he didn’t think he could stand up to this responsibility one more day.
The Amish did divorce.
It was rare, but it had been done.
The bishop couldn’t disallow what the law provided for—the dissolution of a marriage. However, within their community he would pay the price. He’d be banned from the church and need to leave the area for good. What would become of his farm? Was he willing to go that far?
It might be necessary. He acknowledged the possibility to himself for the first time. It wasn’t the solution he would choose, but it might be the only solution if his situation became worse.
Not now, of course. Best to wait for things to settle down.
A sigh escaped his lips as he focused on the road and followed slowly in the long line of buggies to the graveyard. He didn’t relish leaving her alone, with no one to provide for her—but then again, the community would provide.
It wasn’t the future he’d hoped for, but then, life hadn’t turned out according to his wishes. Which was why he’d had to take matters into his own hands.
What was it the Englisch said?
Drastic times called for drastic measures.
In his case, that had certainly held true.