Page 38 of A Gathering of Secrets

“I don’t have anything to say about that.” He turns back to his work, flips on the pneumatic saw. He lines up the board and makes the cut. I can’t tell by his demeanor if I’ve hit on a nerve or if he’s simply impatient and irritable by nature. The one thing that is obvious is that he doesn’t want to talk to me. He’s doing a little too good a job ignoring me, so I decide to push.

When he’s finished with the cut, I round the bench and turn off the saw. “Du sinn heiyahra nau.” You’re married now.

He gives me an annoyed look. “I reckon the Deitsh earns you points. You Amish or what?”

“Used to be. I left.”

He’s not impressed. “So what do you want with me?”

“I want to know why Emma Miller committed suicide.”

Another quiver. More pronounced this time. His eyes flick away. Some of the attitude drains from his eyes. He looks longingly at the cutting bench; he’d rather be working. He wants to make that cut. Instead, he’s standing here with me being forced to answer questions he doesn’t want to answer.

“She’s gone. Dan Gingerich is gone. I don’t see why any of it matters now.”

“It matters because I don’t think Daniel Gingerich got locked in that tack room all by himself.”

He stares at the wood he’d been cutting, refusing to look at me. Is he being stubborn? Or is there something in his eyes he doesn’t want me to see?

I try another tack. “How long have you been married?”

“Three months.”

“You’re a newlywed.”

“We got a baby on the way.” He doesn’t seem too happy about either of those things. One thing has become abundantly clear: Elam Schlabach is an angry and bitter young man.

“Congratulations.” I wait a beat. “You and Emma were close.”

He reaches for another board, lines it up for a cut. It’s as if he can’t control the impulse to keep moving. As if he’d rather be doing anything but partaking in the conversation at hand, including cutting off his own fingers.

“You could say that. I was going to ask her to marry me. Is that close enough for you?”

“What happened?”

“She hung herself.” His voice breaks with the final word, but he covers it with a cough. “It was…” He lowers his voice. “A fucking mess.”

I give him a moment. Let him make another cut. Save face. Maintain his dignity. When he’s finished, I ask, “Why did she do it?”

“If I knew the answer to that, she’d still be here. I would have … I would have stopped her.” He sets down the saw with a little too much force. “How does anyone even conceive something like that? I mean, if you were Amish, Chief Burkholder, then you know that to take your own life is a sin.”

He’s trying to play it cool, keep his emotions under control, put all of that energy into the anger. But it’s evident that even after six months the death of Emma Miller affects him deeply.

“Sometimes people get caught up in a dark place and can’t get out,” I say. “Sometimes no matter how much we love them, we can’t save them.”

Tightening his mouth, he lifts the board and sets it atop the others he’s already cut to size. “So you think someone murdered Dan Gingerich, or what?”

“I do.”

“I hate to disappoint you, but I didn’t know him very well.”

“Did Emma?”

Instead of answering, he picks up another length of wood, sets it on the saw, and lines it up. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Are you sure about that, Elam?”

“Everyone says he was such a great guy.” He spits out the words, a quick spew of venom. And hate. “He was maulgrischt.” A pretend Christian.