Page 92 of The Hidden One

Twenty years before

I was fifteen years old the last time I saw Jonas Bowman. It was worship Sunday at Leroy Miller’s farm. I’d suffered through three hours of preaching in a sweltering barn and another two of the old folks “piecing” on pie and coffee and catching up on the latest gossip. As usual, a “singing” was planned for afternoon; as usual, I had no inclination to attend.

The problem was, I’d agreed to let Jonas drive me home afterward. I wasn’t sure why that was a problem; my parents would be none the wiser if he dropped me off at the end of the lane. I had no idea what was wrong with me. I thought about him all the time. I missed him and yet I didn’t want to spend time with him. I couldn’t even be nice to him.

I’d caught glimpses of him throughout the morning. But with the women seated on one side of the barn and the men on the other, we didn’t speak. Didn’t even make eye contact. I didn’t, anyway. But I caught him looking in my direction a time or two. By the time worship was over, I was feeling sulky and out of sorts. The last thing I wanted to do was ride home with him.

We’d seen each other several times over the summer. We didn’t talk about it or make plans to meet, but somehow it always seemed to happen. He’d helped my datt dig postholes for the cross fence at the back of our property. Twice, we’d met at the creek. Once, at the covered bridge. Those stolen moments had become important to me, the more spontaneous, the better.

Mamm knew something secret was afoot. On more than one occasion, she reminded me that Jonas was too old. She couldn’t explain why Datt—who was six years her senior—wasn’t too old for her. When you looked at it that way, the four years between Jonas and me didn’t seem like that much.

I was almost to the Tuscarawas Bridge when the clip-clop of hooves—and the electric blare of music—drew my attention. I turned to see Jonas in his buggy pull up beside me. I kept walking. He slowed the horse to keep pace.

“You stood me up,” he said.

I looked straight ahead, trying not to acknowledge the tension climbing up the back of my neck. “I forgot.”

I kept walking, but I was keenly aware of him, keeping pace, watching me. The music floating in the air like birdsong.

“You could have at least told me you didn’t want to ride with me,” he said. “I looked for you.”

I kept my eyes on the road in front of me. I didn’t want him to know that I was secretly happy to see him. I knew if I looked at him, he would know.

Finally, I mustered my best frown and looked at him. “That radio is going to get you into trouble.”

“Since when do you care about getting into trouble?” Leaning forward, he turned up the music. “I like this one.”

It was a beautiful song with a wailing guitar and a woman’s voice that sounded like poetry or some exotic foreign language.

“It’s awful hot to be walking in the sun,” he said.

“I’ll get into trouble if I ride with you.”

“No one has to know,” he drawled. “I’ll drop you off at the end of your lane.”

“So you said.”

But I stopped walking. He halted the horse and climbed down. For an instant, we simply looked at each other. I didn’t remember him being so tall. For the first time in my life, I smelled men’s cologne. In that instant, the music faded and the only thing I could hear was the pounding of my heart. Then he took my hand and helped me into the buggy.

A sense of freedom and excitement engulfed me as we flew down the road. I’d never felt so grown-up. I waved at Mrs. Fisher as we passed their farm. Any other time, we might’ve stopped to chat, but Jonas kept going, the radio blaring. I didn’t say anything when he passed the turnoff for the farm where I lived. I had an idea where he was taking me, but it was the only place in the world I wanted to be.

A mile farther, he made the turn onto Rockridge Road. The asphalt gave way to gravel and he kept going. Another quarter mile and the road dead-ended.

“Whoa.” Jonas stopped the horse, then climbed down to loosen the lines so the animal could graze.

It was a pretty spot. Tall elm trees offered welcome shade. A profusion of wildflowers in the ditch. Raspberry bushes growing along the fence. I was thinking about climbing down and checking for ripe berries—maybe taking a few home—when he came back and climbed in beside me. Reaching under the seat, he pulled out a cooler and handed me a beer and got another for himself. I caught a glimpse of the other items in the cooler. Cookies wrapped in wax paper. Some kind of cheese. Crackers. Only then did I realize he’d planned a picnic—and I’d foiled his plans by standing him up.

Embarrassed that I’d noticed the food, he closed the cooler.

“There’s a baseball game Friday out to John Hershberger’s place,” he said. “Wanna go?”

I sipped my beer, thinking, knowing my parents wouldn’t let me go, wondering if I could sneak out. I didn’t look at him because I was afraid he’d see just how desperately I wanted to go. “Maybe.”

“You never used to be so complicated,” he said.

I slanted a look at him, trying to figure out if that was an insult. “I’m not complicated.”

“First you say yes, then you stand me up. What am I supposed to think?”