Page 58 of Shamed

I introduce myself. “I’m from Painters Mill. I’d like to talk to you about something that may have happened here in Crooked Creek a few years ago that involves a child.”

“Painters Mill, huh? Never heard of it.”

She’s standing so close I can see the silver glint of the pins she used to close the front of the dress. Her eyes are cloudy with something yellow in the corners. The left side of her face sags slightly and I recall Mrs. Fisher telling me this woman suffered a stroke a few months back.

“Are you sure about that?” I ask.

“If I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t say it now, would I?” Hefting the shovel, she jams it into the dirt in the wheelbarrow, and dumps it onto the mound. I’m not exactly sure what she’s doing; it’s the kind of project a woman her age shouldn’t be taking on. That said, she’s strong for her size and her age.

“What are you working on?” I ask.

“Levee,” she tells me, ramming the shovel into the wheelbarrow. “Storm comin’.”

I was raised to respect my elders. You don’t talk back to them. You don’t let them exert themselves to exhaustion while you stand there and do nothing. “Big job.”

“That’s why God gave us hands, now, isn’t it?” She’s breathing heavily as she upends the shovel, dumping dirt onto the pile. Her face is wet. I can’t tell if it’s rain or sweat.

I watch her work, uncomfortable because a levee is an impossible feat without heavy equipment and I remember Adam Fisher’s muttered description of Sadie Stutzman. Narrisch …

“Can I help you with that?” I ask.

“Only got one shovel.” She hands me the aforementioned tool and grins a semi-toothless smile. “Don’t mind if I take a breather, though.”

I take the shovel, jam it into the dirt-filled wheelbarrow, and toss a glob of mud onto the mound. I’m aware of her stepping back, bending, setting her hands on her knees.

I keep working. “I understand you’re a midwife.”

“Was till the stroke got me. Don’t do too much anymore. There’s a new one down to Portsmouth. A nice Mennischt girl.” Mennonite. “Gotta have all them certifications and paperwork for the government these days. I ain’t got the patience for such things.”

The handle of the shovel is muddy and wet. I’m not wearing gloves. But the woman is talking, so I keep going. “I understand you knew Bishop Schwartz,” I say as I toss another shovelful of earth onto the mound.

“Everyone knew the bishop.”

“You were close?”

“Close enough.” She straightens. “He was the bishop, after all.”

“Did you ever travel with him to Painters Mill?”

An emotion I can’t quite identify flickers in her eyes. “Can’t say I did.”

Despite the cold and rain, I’m starting to sweat beneath my coat from the effort of my chore. “Are you sure about that, Mrs. Stutzman? I understand you and Bishop Schwartz transported an infant to Painters Mill.”

“Don’t recall anything like that.” She holds out her hand for the shovel. “Give it here.”

I ignore her, keep working. “How long have you been working on the levee?”

“A few weeks now.” She doesn’t seem to notice that her efforts have garnered little more than a pile of earth that will likely wash away with the next downpour.

“The river floods?”

“Every few years. It’s the way things are here.”

“Do you know Bishop Troyer in Painters Mill?” I ask.

She looks at me over the top of her glasses. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, Kate Burkholder? Coming down here and asking all these nosy questions.”

I set down the shovel and upend the wheelbarrow, dumping the remaining dirt and mud onto the mound. “I’m asking you questions that need to be answered.”