Trading Secrets (10 page)

“No.” I shake my head. “Is that really true?”

“
Ja
. It is true.”

“Why?”

“Because that's how it is. At least how it is here. Not all Amish settlements are the same.” He nods toward his dad and brother. “Samuel won't be ready to take over the farm for about fifteen years. That gives Daed time to keep working it. I can keep working it too, but it will never belong to me.”

I'm trying to wrap my head around this. “How do you feel about that?” I ask quietly.

He shrugs. “Good.”

“Really? It feels
good
to know that your baby brother will inherit this?” I wave my arms to all the beautiful farmland that surrounds me. “Not you?” We're back to the place where we stopped before our lunch break, and Zach is checking on the horse.

He turns to grin at me—a placating sort of smile, almost as if he thinks I'm not too smart. “
Ja
. Good. I never really wanted to be a farmer anyway.” He leans over to reconnect the horse to the seeder, and before long we're back at it. Meanwhile, Zach's dad and brother continue running the harrow, slowly plodding along. But Samuel, instead of actually working, is sitting atop one of the tall horses. I suppose in some way he feels as if he's working. At least he seems happy. I wonder if he knows that one day this will all be his. Maybe he doesn't care.

As I walk over the soft, freshly turned soil, I'm still obsessing over these weird Amish rules of birthright. Is Zach really okay with it? Working so hard on his family's farm, only to see it all bequeathed to his baby brother? And what about Jeremiah? Doesn't he get anything? I get that the daughters, like in previous centuries and third world cultures, are out of luck when it comes to inheritance. I'm sure the Miller girls hope to marry into situations that will provide for them—and I realize that the Amish are all about faith and trusting God. I totally respect that, but really, it's hard to wrap my head around this backwards inheritance policy. I can't help but feel sorry for Zach. It seems both unkind and unfair.

W
hat time is it?” Zach calls out to me as we're turning the horse around to plant another row. As I reach for my phone, I'm surprised at how much we've gotten done. Almost half of what I thought was an enormous field is now planted, and Zach's dad is nearly finished with his tilling.

“Oh, Zach!” I exclaim. “It's almost 3:00 already. I had no idea!”

“You run to the house and get ready to go,” he calls back. “I'll meet you out front with the buggy.”

“Okay.” I wave and turn to make a dash to the house, but the quickest route is through the part we've just planted. Careful not to mess up our work, I hop over the freshly seeded corn rows like an impaired bunny rabbit, finally making it back to the house, where I find Zach's mother just taking my laundry down from her clothesline.

“I can get that,” I tell her, grabbing for a pair of jeans, which are still slightly damp around the pockets. “I need to hurry or I'll miss that bus.”

With my clothes in my arms, I shoot up the stairs and hurry to change. Then, with my remaining items rolled into a ball, I race back to the barn where my backpack is still up in the loft. I've just gotten everything shoved into it when I hear Zach calling, telling me to hurry.

By the time I'm seated next to Zach in the buggy, I'm feeling worried. “Do you really think you can make it to town in just an hour?” I ask nervously as he drives the horse toward the road.

“I hope so,” he says.

I want to ask him to go faster, but since the driveway is gravel and I suspect his mother is watching, I keep my mouth closed. Hopefully he can make up for it when we're a ways down the road. I have no idea how fast these buggies can go, and this appears to be a smaller one than the family uses, but if I'm going to catch that bus, he'll have to pick up the pace—a lot.

“I really appreciate you taking me to town,” I say as I bend down to tie the laces of my dirt-encrusted shoes.

“It is the least I can do,” he tells me.

Once we come upon the next farm, Zach urges the horse to go faster. Of course, this makes me feel guilty. This is the same horse that's been faithfully pulling—make that pushing—the seeder. “I hope he's not worn out,” I say to Zach.

“Who?”

“The horse,” I explain. “I know he's already been working hard.”

Zach just laughs. “Don't worry about Dobbs. He likes to stretch his legs when he gets the chance.”

I can tell by Zach's expression that he enjoys picking up the pace too. Even so, as I look at my phone, which is nearly
dead, I think we'll be lucky to make it to town in time. I turn it off and say a silent prayer for speed. Then I remember the Bible verse about praying instead of worrying, and I decide not to obsess over time. Instead I turn to study Zach's profile as he keeps his eyes on the horse and the asphalt road. Okay, I'm only human—and seventeen—and I can't help but think how attractive he is. And it's not just his physical appearance. He is appealing on many levels. I wonder what it would be like if we'd met under different circumstances. If he wasn't Amish, how would it have gone?

“Are you glad to be going home?” he asks me suddenly.

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” I confess. “I mean, it's been really interesting visiting your farm. I'm glad I got to meet you face-to-face . . . and I'm relieved that you've forgiven me. But it will be good to get home.”

“So you're not really cut out for being Amish?” he says in a teasing tone.

I smile. “Maybe not so much.”

“It's hard work.”

“Yeah, it is.” Already I'm looking forward to my own bed, my own bathroom, and sleeping in tomorrow.

“Not for everyone.”

“I'd venture to say it's not for most people.” I remember what he said about not wanting to be a farmer. “So, if you don't want to be a farmer,” I say hesitantly, “what do you want to be?”

His brow creases, but his eyes remain fixed directly ahead.

“I mean, you have to make a living somehow, don't you?”

“
Ja
. That's true.”

“So, unless it's nosy for me to ask, what are your plans?”

“I'm not sure.”

“Will you stay and work on the farm until Samuel is old enough to take over?”

“That is what my parents want me to do.”

“But what happens then? They just send you on your way?”

The crease in his forehead deepens. “They say God will provide.”

I don't know what to say. It's not like I want to challenge their faith. After all, I believe it myself. God does provide. “I believe that too,” I tell him. “That God provides. Even so, I plan to do my part by going to college and getting into a career.”

“
Ja
, that's easy for you, Micah. Your father wants the same thing for you.”

“What are you saying?”

He glances at me, then looks back at the road. “I'm saying it's not easy being Amish . . . and wanting something more.”

“What do you want?” I ask.

“An education,” he says in a flat tone.

I just nod, but for some reason this makes me very, very sad. Almost on the brink of tears sad. Not because Zach is longing for more schooling. I respect that. I'm sad because education is so completely out of his reach. His schooling ended at eighth grade. I'm four years ahead of him in school right now. It really is sad. Depressing even. “I'm sorry,” I mutter. “I wish there was a way you could continue your schooling.”

“I've been reading.” He brightens a bit. “A librarian has helped me to find the books that are taught in high school. But if my parents knew the kinds of books I've been reading . . . they wouldn't like it.”

“Why are they so opposed to education?” I ask. “I mean, beyond eighth grade?”

“They believe worldly wisdom is unnecessary, that it makes people proud. Pride separates us from God. Technology separates us from God.” He sighs. “So much, they believe, separates us from God.”

“I agree with them on some level,” I admit. “Pride probably does push us away from God. I don't believe that education makes people proud, though. Sometimes I think the more that I learn, the less I know. I mean, because I realize how much more there is to learn. It's overwhelming, you know?”

“Ja!”
he says eagerly. “I know what you mean. I read about something as simple as the weather and the science behind a lightning storm, and it all makes sense. But then I realize I'm still filled with more questions. So I read more about it.” He taps his forehead. “It's like I have this unquenchable thirst for knowledge.” He shakes his head. “My parents would call that sin.”

“Why?”

“Because I should have that kind of thirst for God.”

I consider this. “What if you could have both?”

He shrugs, then clicks his tongue for Dobbs to speed up again.

We continue talking all the way to town, sharing dreams, asking questions, trying to figure out the meaning of life. It's the longest conversation we've had since I came to visit, and in so many ways it reminds me of the letters we've written—only more personal. Very much more.

“Hey, there's the bus,” I say with excitement as we come into town and I spot a bus going down a side street. “I haven't
missed it after all.” The realization hits me. This will be goodbye—maybe forever.

Zach frowns as he slows down for a stop sign. I wonder what he's thinking.

“Do you think we can stay in touch?” I ask hesitantly. “I mean, now that you know I'm not a guy?”

He presses his lips together as he shakes the reins to urge the horse toward the center of town. “My parents will not approve.”

“Right . . .”

“They didn't approve before,” he confesses, “when they thought you were a boy.”

“I know.”

“But maybe there's another way,” he says as he turns onto Main Street. “Maybe I can send the letters from the library.”

“And you could get a post office box,” I say eagerly, quickly explaining how that works. But I see the spot where the bus should be sitting, in front of the small grocery store, and the space is empty. “Where's the bus?” I ask Zach.

“I don't know.” He looks around blankly.

“I'll go ask in the store,” I tell him as I hop out of the buggy.

“I'll wait over there,” he calls out, pointing to a parking place on the side street that's large enough for the horse and buggy.

Feeling a mix of emotions, I hurry into the store and ask the cashier if she knows where the bus is. “I just saw it,” I say. “Has it been here yet?”

“Been here and left,” she informs me. “There was no one at the stop, so it just went straight through town. Next bus won't be through until midday tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry, hon.” She turns to wait on the next customer, and I dismally go outside to find Zach, explaining my dilemma.

“I should probably stay in town,” I finally say. “In the hotel.” But I remember something—after helping with Zach's vet bill, I don't have enough money for both a night in the hotel and my bus fare. I let out a hopeless sigh, then shake my head. I feel so foolish.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” I mutter. “I'll be fine.” I force a smile. “You better get going, Zach. I'm sure they need you at home.”

He narrows his eyes. “Something is wrong, Micah. I can tell. Are you worried about staying in a hotel?”

“No, no,” I assure him, trying to think of a solution. Of course, Dad will figure a way out of the mess I've made. Although I would've liked to have handled it myself. “I'm fine. Really.”

He tips his head to one side. “It's about the money you gave the vet, isn't it?” he persists. “You need that now, don't you?”

“I'll just call Dad for help.” I reach for my phone. “If I can find a place to charge this.”

“How about the library?” He points down the street. “They have electricity.”

This makes me smile. “Everyone in town has electricity.”

He chuckles. “
Ja
, you're right about that.”

“I'll go to the café,” I tell him. “I'm sure if I order something they'll let me charge it there.”

“Let's go right now,” he says firmly.

“Don't you need to go home?”

“Not yet,” he insists. “I won't leave town until I know you're all right.”

“Thank you.” I smile. “Can I buy you a soda or coffee? Or a piece of pie or something?”

Before long, and after a number of curious glances—have they never seen an Amish boy with an English girl?—we're seated in a booth that has an electrical outlet nearby. By the time we're ordering pie and ice cream and coffee, my phone is already charging.

“Will your parents be worried that you're not back yet?” I ask as I stir cream and sugar into my coffee.

He shrugs. “Maybe. But I am not a child.”

“No, but you do live under your parents' roof. I suppose that means they can still treat you like a child.” I want to add, “even though they expect you to work like a man,” but I know that's unkind.

“So you have seen.”

“Well, that's sort of true for English kids too. My dad still treats me like a child sometimes. But not most of the time. I think it's because Mom's not around. Dad kind of let me grow up faster than some kids do. Like he expects me to act like an adult, you know?”

“My parents do that sometimes too. They expect me to make grown-up decisions. They want me to commit to the church, to get baptized, to settle down—to grow up.”

“How do you feel about that?”

He makes a lopsided smile. “I want to grow up, of course, but I want to do it my way. Not theirs.”

“What about being Amish?” I ask.

“You mean do I want to remain Amish, do I want to be baptized, join the church, marry an Amish woman?” He asks the rest of my questions for me.

“Do you want all that?”

“Not right now.”

“What does that mean, not right now?”

“It means, no, I don't want any of that. Not right now.”

“But you think you might want it later?”

He looks uncertain. “Maybe. It's hard to cut off everything. That's what happens if you don't join the church. You get cut off. Your family, your friends, your home, everything—it's all removed from your life. Or you are removed from it.”

“Like being shunned?”

He shrugs. “It's similar. It's their way of making you see the error of your ways, to make you want to come back, to get things right.”

“Do people come back like that? I mean, if someone leaves, do they eventually come back and get things right?”

“Some do.” He runs his hand through his dark curly hair. “Some do not.”

“Oh.”

“Do you see why I feel confused about a decision like this?”

I nod. “Yeah. I don't know what I'd do if I thought I was going to get cut off from Dad, or my friends, or everything that's familiar in my life.”

“Fortunately for you, no one is asking you to make that kind of choice.”

As we sit there in silence, I think about how I felt as I wandered around Zach's farm this morning. Enjoying the beauty of the countryside in the early morning sunlight, checking on the farm animals, breathing that sweet fresh air, walking around in Katy's loose-fitting Amish dress—well, it felt sort of good.

After Zach excuses himself to the restroom, I'm left to my own thoughts. I'm surprised to realize that I already miss
being there. I miss the smell of the air, the sound of the animals, the greenness of the grass and trees. I miss being able to go out to the barn to check on Molly and her colt. I even miss working in the field with Zach's slightly grumpy father. Maybe if I thought about it hard enough, I'd even miss Zach's mother and her disapproving scowl.