Page 41 of Fallen

He nods. “What can I do for you?”

Something disingenuous peeks out at me from behind his eyes, the curl of his mouth. “I’d like to ask you a few questions,” I say.

Taking his time, he sets down the sander and plucks off his leather gloves. “This is about Rachael Schwartz?”

“So you’ve heard.”

“Word of death travels fast, especially when you’re Amish.”

I don’t point out that his Amishness is debatable. “You knew her?”

“She came to us, here in Killbuck. Stayed for a time.”

“How long ago?”

“Eleven or twelve years, I think. She’d been put under the bann by the bishop in Painters Mill. She was a troubled young woman.” He touches his chest. “Inside, you know. She was alone. Confused. She had nowhere to go and so we took her in. We offered her refuge and counsel. A place to live. We offered her hope.”

“How long did she stay?”

“Six months or so.”

“That’s not very long.”

He shakes his head. “She was a restless soul. Searching for something she couldn’t name. After a time, she realized she could not abide by our ways.”

“What ways is that?”

“I don’t want to disparage her. That’s not our way. But she was … difficult.”

“How so?”

He shrugs. “She was … disruptive. As bishop, my community comes first. When I asked her to leave, she became angry.”

“Was she angry with anyone in particular?”

“Me, of course. But she also turned on some of the womenfolk. Some of the girls she lived with. Accused them of spying.” He dismisses the word with a wave of his hand. “Strange things like that.” He shakes his head. “She tried to come back, get into our good graces. But I wouldn’t have it. A couple of years later that book came out. I was shocked by all the vicious lies. It caused problems for our small community. It seems young Rachael sold her soul for money.”

I think about the rumors of polygamy, of children at risk, and the accusations that Gingerich is more cult leader than bishop. I ask anyway. “What kinds of problems?”

“Reporters started sniffing around, accosting us here or in town, asking all sorts of questions. The police came, too, as did the social people with the government, wanting to know about the children.” His mouth tightens. “Our property was vandalized. People in town called us names or refused to do business with us. It was an outrage.”

“What did you do?”

“What could we do? Like so many of our forefathers we put our fate in the hands of God and we weathered the storm.”

“Did you blame Rachael Schwartz for any of it?”

“I blame intolerance,” he tells me. “Ignorance.”

I let it go, shift gears. “Was Rachael close with anyone in particular here in this community?”

“She was only here for a short time. I don’t believe she got too close to anyone, really.”

“What about you?” I ask.

He tilts his head, the spark of something I can’t readily identify in his eyes. Irritation? Amusement? “What about me?”

“Were you and Rachael close?” I ask.