Page 97 of Shamed

“The Lord never blessed them with little ones. She was ime familye weg once or twice, but … no babies.” She gives a shrug. “She never spoke of it, but I know it was hard on her. You know how important children are to the Amish. To tell you the truth, I never felt close enough to her to ask. Lord knows the men don’t talk about such things. The women used to gossip about poor Rosanna and her not having any little ones. Some said worse.”

“Worse like what?”

“Cruel nonsense mostly. Gossipmongers saying she wasn’t fit to be a mother.” The Amish woman clucks in disgust. “It must have hurt her something awful.”

“Why would they say such a thing?” I ask.

“Rosanna was a quiet thing. Serious, you know. Different. She didn’t laugh much. Didn’t get close to people like most of us do. Some of the Amish thought that was odd. I suppose I did, too.”

“Why were they put under the bann?”

“Vernon bought a truck.” She makes a sound of disapproval. “I didn’t have them over anymore after that. You know how it is. I couldn’t take meals with them. No one would do business with them. I urged them to mend their ways. To honor their baptismal promises.”

“Do you know what kind of truck it was? Color?”

“Never saw it. I wouldn’t let him bring it on the property.”

I nod, thinking about a woman without children, isolated from her family, and how both of those things could affect someone who is part of a community in which children are so highly valued.

“Did you know Mary Yoder?” I ask.

“I don’t know who that is.”

“What about Marlene Byler?”

The knitting needles go still. “She’s the woman who killed herself all those years ago. Jumped off the bridge.”

“Did you know her?”

“I know the name is all. Lots of people around here remember that name. What she did … such an awful thing.”

Her eyes don’t meet mine. She stares at her knitting, realizing she’s dropped a stitch.

“Marlene Byler and Mary Yoder were sisters,” I tell her.

The woman stares at me, her mouth working. I see the wheels of her mind spinning and I get the impression she’s struggling with some internal dilemma.

“Mrs. Detweiler, a little girl’s life is at stake,” I say quietly. “She’s seven years old. Amisch. If you know something that might help me find her, I need to hear it.”

For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the hiss of the lantern, the patter of rain against the window, the splat of water against the sidewalk as it overflows the guttering outside.

“I never got to know my daughter-in-law well.” The woman tightens her mouth, looks down at her knitting, picks at the yarn. “Chief Burkholder, Rosanna told me a strange story once. You have to understand, she was … a peculiar girl. Always saying odd things no one really understood or knew how to react to. You never knew if it was true or make-believe.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She told me that Marlene Byler was her mamm.”

My pulse jumps at the possibility of yet another familial connection. “So Marlene Byler had more than one child?”

“Oh no. You misunderstand. Marlene only had one child.”

I stare at her, my mind scrambling to make sense of what I’ve just been told. “Are you telling me Rosanna is the baby that went off the bridge with Marlene?”

“I’m telling you that’s what Rosanna said. I don’t know if it’s true. Lord knows she told her share of tall tales.”

“Did she tell you how she survived the fall?” I ask. “Did she say who raised her?”

“Her grandmother.”