It’s ten P.M. and I’ve just tossed a couple chunks of oak into the wood-burning stove when I hear the backdoor slam. The children have already gone to bed; the house is quiet. Maybe a little too quiet. I’m missing Tomasetti, wishing I were at the farm, pondering how all of this with Gina is going to play out in the coming days.
The woman in question appears in the doorway between the mudroom and the kitchen, drawing me from my reverie. She’s wearing Adam’s coat. There’s snow in her hair, on the shoulders of the coat. Her cheeks glow red from the cold.
“I hate Ohio,” she announces as she stomps snow from her feet. “I swear to God when this is over, I’m moving to Hawaii.”
“I take it the snow has begun.”
“Coming down like a son of a bitch.”
“I didn’t realize you’d gone out.”
“Left something in my truck.”
Turning to her, I raise a brow. “I don’t recall seeing anything of importance in your truck.”
“This, my friend, transcends mere importance.” With great flourish, she pulls a bottle of Gentleman Jack from an inside coat pocket. “The cure for cabin fever and a troubled soul rolled into one.”
Despite my efforts, I can’t quite keep a straight face. “It has been my experience that Jack Daniels is no gentleman.”
“Gentlemen are overrated,” she says breezily. “But Jack is smooth and warm with just enough burn to hold my interest.”
“I hate to point out the obvious, but we should probably keep our wits about us.”
“My wits don’t even kick in until that first swallow hits my brain.” She strides to the table and sets down the bottle. “No one in their right mind is going to be out on a night like tonight.”
I try not to think about the odds of that as I wipe the counters and shove the bread into the bread box. I hear Gina return to the mudroom to remove her boots and hang the coat. I know her too well not to be a tad concerned about the bottle of whiskey. She’s responsible to a degree, but I know intimately the part of her that is not. Nestled deep in the heart of all that equanimity resides a wild streak as long as the Ohio River. I’ve seen her take solace in alcohol. I’ve seen her use it to escape pain. And I’ve seen her imbibe for the sheer pleasure of it. With everything that’s going on, not the least of which is the fact that we are in an Amish home, I don’t want her taking things too far.
She joins me at the kitchen table. Mismatched glasses containing three fingers of whiskey sit on the tabletop in front of us. Too much for me. Not enough for her. The only sounds are the hiss of the propane lamp and the quiet tinkle-tap of snow against the window. It’s a thoughtful, comfortable silence. The kind that doesn’t need to be filled with meaningless words or chatter, though there is much to be said.
After a moment, she picks up her glass and raises it. “To troubled waters.”
I clink my glass against hers. “And ten years gone.”
Eyes holding, remembrance flitting between us, we sip. I’ve drunk more than my share of whiskey over the years, but I’ve never been a fan. To my credit, it’s been a while since I imbibed. Tonight, with the past hovering between us and the road ahead laden with a gauntlet of unknowns, the whiskey goes down with surprising ease.
“I always knew you’d do well for yourself,” Gina says after a moment. “You’ve kept your nose clean. Worked hard. Now, you’re a small-town chief of police. You’ve got a decent man. A future. An unblemished reputation.”
“Not quite unblemished,” I tell her.
She holds my gaze for the span of several heartbeats, but she doesn’t ask the obvious question. She’s one of only a handful of people who know what happened when I was fourteen years old. I told her a few months after we met, and to her credit she never brought up the matter again.
“You know what I mean,” she says.
Because I do, I look down at the glass in my hands, saying nothing.
“I’ve always believed the best measure of success isn’t where you are at any certain moment, but how far you’ve come from where you started.” She looks at me and nods. “You, my friend, have come a long way.”
The old affection stirs in my chest. “Yeah, well, someone gave me some good advice once.”
“You would have gotten your GED and found your place even if I hadn’t hounded you.”
“I wouldn’t have gotten into law enforcement.”
She grins. “I guess that’s one thing I did right.” Another short silence and then she says, “It’s ironic, though. I was the one who knew what I wanted to be. And yet you were always the better cop.”
Once upon a time I would have argued; now, any such argument would be disingenuous. Somewhere along the line she took a wrong turn. While she might be able to find her way back and salvage some trace of her career, she’ll never work in law enforcement again.
“I should have stopped you,” I tell her.
“Oh, come on. When I have my sights set on fucking up, no one gets in the way.”
“If I’d been there,” I say, “I never would have let you go down the road you did.”
She nods, regret reflecting in her eyes. “You left at exactly the right time. You were smart. Got out or else you might’ve been sucked into the mess, too.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I wouldn’t have.”
“You’re right. You wouldn’t have.” She blows out a sigh. “This is my doing. It’s on me. I have to take responsibility.” She lowers her gaze to her glass. “For God’s sake I never dreamed my career would end like this. Consequences, I guess.”
Thoughtful, she reaches for the bottle, pours another finger into our glasses. “What do you think’s going to happen?”
I recall my conversation with Tomasetti. I wish I could tell her that there’s an ongoing investigation and that she’s not the main focus, but because of the sensitivity of the situation, I can’t. While the knowledge might help her sleep tonight, I don’t trust her enough to share it. The fewer people who know, the better off all of us will be in the long run, so I hold my silence.
“Some of it’s going to depend on what we can prove,” I tell her. “How helpful you are if this thing moves forward.”
“How accommodating the district attorney is feeling,” she mutters. “I don’t even want to think about what Mercer and Bertrand have put into play.”
“You’re not the only one who has a credibility problem,” I tell her. “Neither of them is squeaky clean.”
She thinks about that a moment. “Kate, they’re not stupid. They have resources. They’re good at covering their tracks. Being cops, they’ve got their choice of suspects to bring forward for things they themselves have done.”
“That is the nature of corruption.” The words taste bitter coming out, like a mouthful of bad food. “So much arrogance.”
She looks away, swirls the whiskey in her glass. “I don’t want to go to jail,” she whispers.
“Get a good lawyer. Make yourself valuable. Negotiate for what you want.”
“If I have to do time…” She shudders, lets the words trail. “If it’s the last thing I do, I swear I’m going to nail those sons of bitches.”
“Every case they’ve been involved in over the years is going to get another hard look,” I say. “We’re talking the affidavits. Warrants. Arrests. Convictions. I would imagine there will be some exonerations coming down.”
Movement at the doorway draws my attention. I glance over to see Adam enter the kitchen. Head bent, he’s squinting down at a Louis L’ Amour paperback novel. He’s so engrossed, he doesn’t notice us. Gina and I watch as he moves to the propane refrigerator and reaches for the door, likely to sneak a piece of rhubarb pie.
“You are so busted,” Gina says.
The Amish man lowers the book, his eyes flicking from Gina to me and back to her. “I didn’t realize you were still awake.”
“I haven’t gone to bed at ten P.M. since I was six years old,” Gina tells him.
Adam tugs open the refrigerator door. “You two look like you’re up to no good.”
“We are,” she says, deadpan. “Want to join us?”
His eyes skate away from hers and move to the interior of the fridge. “I thought I might have a glass of milk and some pie.”
“Sammy ate the last piece before he went to bed,” I tell him.
“I’ve got something better than pie right here on the table.” Gina flicks the bottle of Gentleman Jack with her index finger. “Heaven in a bottle.”
I nudge her under the table with my foot, toss her a cut-it-out look.
Adam turns from the refrigerator, his gaze moving to the glasses in front of us and the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Contrary to popular belief, drinking alcohol isn’t always forbidden by the Ordnung, the unwritten rules set forth by the local church district. It depends on the district leadership. While drinking is generally frowned upon, some Amish—even outside of their Rumspringa years—quietly enjoy the occasional cold beer or glass of wine.
Lifting the bottle, Gina wriggles it back and forth. “Plenty to go around,” she says.
“Most Amish don’t drink,” I tell her, hoping to give Adam an easy out.
Noticing my expression, she shrugs. “Hey, no problem. I wouldn’t want to be a bad influence.”
I laugh. “Too late for that.”
As I take another sip, let the smoky taste of it settle on my tongue, I notice that Adam didn’t pull the raw milk from the fridge. Instead, he goes to the cabinet above the sink, snags a glass, and brings it to the table.
“A lot of English have the wrong idea about the Amish,” he says as he pulls out a chair and sits. “I think you could be one of them.”
Grinning, Gina pours two fingers of the amber liquid into the glass. “I’m rethinking all of my preconceived notions as we speak.”
“I’ve drunk whiskey before,” he tells her.
A memory tickles the back of my brain. “If I’m not mistaken, it was my whiskey and there were five of us.”
He smiles. “The Yoder brothers.”
“And Mervin Hershberger,” I remind him. “Talk about a bad influence.”
“We sneaked down to the covered bridge.” He chuckles. “We were what? Sixteen years old?”
“Sixteen going on twenty and looking for trouble.”
“Some of us more than others.” Adam gives me a pointed look. “Do you remember what Mervin Hershberger did?”
“After one drink of whiskey, he took off his clothes and dove off the bridge into the creek.”
“Right about the time his mamm and datt happened by in the buggy.”
Remembering, I nearly choke on my whiskey. “I’ll never forget the look on his face.”
“I’ll never forget the look on his parents’ faces.”
“We didn’t see him again until school started.”
All three of us are laughing now. At the time, what Adam and I did that day seemed forbidden and sinful. Looking back, I realize that while what we did was outside of Amish norms, we were good kids, set on breaking the rules. At the time it seemed momentous, but only because we’d led such protected lives.
Gina caps the bottle and raises her glass. “To good memories and good friends.”
“And breaking the rules,” Adam puts in.
Our glasses clink together and we drink.
He leans back in the chair and stretches his legs out in front of him. “My parents were sad for you when you left, Katie.”
I shoot him a smile. “Even though I could play ice hockey better than you.”
“You always liked to win,” he says, chuckling.
“That’s the Kate we know and love,” Gina murmurs, and then gives me her full attention. “Do you ever miss being Amish?”
I think about the question for the moment. “I did for a long time after I left. I was confused and afraid I’d made a mistake. I missed my family. The sense of community. I missed spending time out of doors. On the farm.” I shrug. “But I was young and looking ahead, too. The longer I was gone, the easier it got, and the more certain I became that I did the right thing.”
I feel Adam’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at him. I’m not sure I want to know that he still disapproves of my decision to leave the fold. A lot of the Amish disapproved. Early on, it hurt, but I got used to it. To this day I still hear the occasional comment. It rolls off me, for the most part. But there are times when an Amish person I respect denigrates the decision I made and the things I’ve done with my life, and the young Amish girl who still resides inside me flinches.
“Mer sott em sei eegne net verlosse; Gott verlosst die seine nicht,” I say. “I heard that a lot when I came back.”
“What does it mean?” Gina asks.
Adam replies. “One should not abandon one’s own; God does not abandon His own.”
“That’s harsh,” Gina tells him. “Talk about a guilt trip.”
“It is the Amish way.” Adam looks at me. “I never held it against you, Katie. It didn’t matter that you could play hockey better than me.”
The sound of snow tapping against the window fills the silence that follows. Gina finishes her whiskey. I try not to notice when she pours another.
“Did you get your problems back in Columbus straightened out?” Adam asks her.
“It’s sort of a work in progress,” she tells him.
“And your shoulder?”
“Thanks to you and Joe, I could probably beat you in an arm wrestling contest.” She looks at Adam and a smile plays at the corners of her mouth. “If you hadn’t stopped to help, if you hadn’t brought me here, I would have died.”
“God always has a plan for us, Gina. For me. For you. For all of us. It wasn’t your time and so He sent us to find you.”
Smiling, she reaches across the table, rests her hand on his forearm and squeezes. “You opened your home to a stranger. You didn’t know what kind of person I was. I didn’t exactly make a good impression. You did it anyway.”
He looks away, not quite comfortable with her gratitude or her touch, and eases his arm away from her. “Helping those in need is the Amish way.”
“Even so, you took a chance on me,” she says. “I won’t forget it.”
I watch the exchange with a combination of fascination and what I can only describe as trepidation. I slant a covert look at Adam and something inside me sinks. I can tell by the way he’s looking at Gina that he’s not immune to her charms; the last thing on his mind is the possibility that he could be setting himself up for a mistake that will cost him something later on. I want to reach out and stop him, before he does something he’ll regret. But I don’t. It would be unseemly for me to voice my opinion or intervene.
The rise of protectiveness I feel for him surprises me. I have the utmost respect for the Amish, their beliefs and traditions. But I also know they can be judgmental of mistakes.
Leaning across the table, Gina pours another finger of the amber liquid into his glass. She tries to do the same to mine, but I set my hand over the top.
“Suit yourself,” she says.
Finishing the last of my whiskey, I take the glass to the sink, rinse it, and set it to drain. I bid them good night and leave the kitchen.