Page 57 of Rage

I park in the circular drive in front. I’m on my way to the door when I notice the wagon loaded with alfalfa bales backed up to the barn. The sliding door is open. In the shadows within I see someone moving around, so I head that way.

I’m midway there when a fat golden retriever slinks out of the barn to greet me. I bend to give her a scratch behind her ear as I go through the man door.

“Watch out for my vicious watchdog.”

I glance left to see a tall young man standing in the hay wagon, looking at me. He’s dressed plainly in a work shirt, black trousers and suspenders, and a summer straw hat. He’s clean-shaven, which means he’s not married.

Bending to a bale of alfalfa, he lifts it, hauls it to the rear of the wagon, and tosses it to the floor alongside a dozen others.

“Those bales look nice and heavy,” I say as I cross to him.

“Good crop this year.” Eyeing the bruises on my face and neck, he jumps down from the wagon. “You look like you might’ve had a rowdy night.”

“You should see the other guy.” Smiling, I cross to him and stick out my hand for a shake. “I’d like to talk to you about Samuel Yutzy and Aaron Shetler if you have a minute.” I add the “if you have a minute” phrase because it’s polite, which is generally a good way to begin an interview.

He gives my hand a solid shake, then picks up one of the bales and stacks it on a waiting pallet. “I knew both of them. Heard about what happened.”

“How did you hear?”

“The Budget ran a story,” he says, referring to a popular Amish newspaper. “To tell you the truth, everybody who’s got a tongue is talking about it.”

“I understand you were friends.”

“I was closer to Sammy.” He lifts another bale, stacks it, reaches for another. “We knew each other since we were kids. Went to school together. Went to our first singeon together.” It’s the Deitsch word for “singing,” which is a social event for Amish teens.

He’s sweating from the exertion of his chore, the fabric beneath his arms darkened with moisture. Despite his friendly tone, there’s a standoffishness about him. A hardness to his expression. He’s got a thin mouth that’s more snarl than smile and speaks of harsh judgment.

“The farm’s looking good,” I tell him.

“Been mine for about a year now. Had my work cut out for me.”

He’s not wearing gloves and I can just make out the red stripe of a cut on his right hand, between the thumb and forefinger. “How many acres?” I ask conversationally.

“Thirty-one, but the neighbor to the north has another six. Might buy it if I can pull the money together.”

“You farm full-time?”

“Naw.” He pulls a toothpick from his breast pocket and puts it in his mouth. “I work for Keim Lumber. Been with them almost three years now.”

We’re dancing around the topic at hand, feeling each other out. To my surprise, he brings it up first. “So what do you want to know about Sammy?”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Been a few months.”

“Seems like a long time for someone who was a friend.”

He shifts the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, studies me as if trying to decide if he should answer my question or throw me off his property.

“I kind of backed off, I guess.”

“Backed off from your friendship?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t like the road he was going down.”

I’m still thinking about the cut on his hand. “What road was that?”

“The one to hell, maybe.” He doesn’t smile.