Laughing, I ascend the steps and knock.
An Amish woman answers with the caution of a woman who’s been forewarned about a potentially dangerous foreign invader. She’s pretty and in her mid to late thirties, with the same features as the boy: hazel eyes, freckles, and a mane of curly red hair pulled back and tucked into a kapp. She’s wearing a green dress with a white apron that’s stained with what looks like tomato juice, and off-brand sneakers. Judging from her expression, she has no idea who I am, so I quickly introduce myself.
“I’m the chief of police in Painters Mill,” I tell her.
“Chief Burkholder.” She softens, presses a hand against her chest, and lets out a laugh that speaks more of nerves than humor. “Jonas might’ve mentioned you a time or two.”
I try not to show my surprise. “Call me Katie.” I pause. “The Diener thought I might be able to help.”
“Oh.” Her smile fades and for an instant, I think she’s going to burst into tears—or collapse. Instead, she motions to the doorway. “Kumma inseid.” Come inside.
She steps back and swings open the door. An awkward moment ensues and she sticks out her hand for a shake. “Where are my manners? Scattered all over the place, just like the rest of me. I’m Dorothy, Jonas’s wife.”
Her laugh is more polite than genuine, and as we shake hands, I discern the signs of stress on her face. Circles beneath her eyes. A too-quick smile that trembles. A demeanor that’s outwardly energetic, but under scrutiny fails to cover the exhaustion beneath.
“He’s fond of his childhood in Painters Mill.” She looks at me from beneath her lashes. “Fond of you, too.”
I have no idea how much Jonas told her about me. About us. Ancient history, a little voice whispers. Even so, better to stick to the topic at hand.
“It’s a good place to grow up,” I tell her.
“You were Amish.” Tilting her head, she looks at me, wondering, curious.
“I wasn’t very good at it,” I tell her.
She hefts a genuine laugh. “Kumma. Ich habb kaffi.” Come. I have coffee.
She leads me into the kitchen. “Sitz dich anne un bleiva weil.” Set yourself there and stay awhile.
The kitchen is modern for an Amish home. Eggshell-white walls with gleaming oak cabinets. A big walnut table with six ladder-back chairs. High-end gas stove. A big stainless-steel refrigerator hums from its place against the wall, state-of-the-art and powered by gas.
“You and Jonas have a nice home,” I say as I take a seat at the table.
“Jonas built most of what you see, including that table and the cabinets.” At the counter, she pours coffee from an old-fashioned percolator into mugs. She’s in her comfort zone now. The kitchen is her domain and she’s in charge. It’s a precarious grip, but she’s got her hands on it and she’s going to maintain her grasp until she figures out exactly who I am and why I’ve come here.
I run my hand over the tabletop. “He’s good.”
“The English sure like him.” She sets a steaming cup of coffee in front of me. “Maybe a little more than the Amish.”
I’m not sure what to make of that or how to respond, so I pick up the cup and sip, file the comment and its implications away for later.
“How are you holding up?” I ask.
She waves off the question. “Oh, I’m fine. Work around here is piling up a little, but what else is new? Jonas’ll have plenty to keep him busy when he gets home.” She’s making small talk. Nervous. Hesitant to bring up the business at hand with a stranger, especially an Englischer.
It’s a typical Amish response. Even when faced with a devastating situation, they don’t complain. They make do. They accept their problems and deal with them in silence, changing what they can, and leaving the rest to God.
“The kids?” I ask.
She closes her eyes briefly, but not before I see the flash of pain. “I haven’t told them. I mean, they know something’s wrong. Their datt has been gone for two weeks. They’re confused. I just don’t know what to say to them. How do I tell them their father is in jail, accused of murdering his own bishop?”
It’s a devastating question. One I couldn’t begin to answer myself. All children are innocent. But there’s an added ingenuousness in Amish children that makes the situation even more heartbreaking.
“Hopefully, we’ll be able to get him home soon.” I tell her about my visit.
She sits up straighter, the need for news lighting her eyes. “How is he?”
“Okay, I think. More worried about you and the kids than himself. He asked me to check on you, see if you needed anything.”
She looks down at her coffee, but not before I see the quick jump of guilt in her eyes. “He told me not to come, so I’ve not been to visit him yet. I know that’s bad, but I can’t imagine. Seeing him in a cage…” She lets the words trail as if unable to finish.
“Dorothy, bail has been set at five hundred thousand dollars,” I tell her. “Do you have a bondsman?”
“Katie, we don’t have that kind of money.”
“With a bondsman, you only pay ten percent, and Jonas will be released.”
“That’s fifty thousand.… I don’t know.… Maybe.”
“Think about it,” I tell her. “I’ll help if I can.”
I don’t know the dynamics of her and Jonas’s standing in the Amish community, but I do know the Amish will help. Even if there’s some kind of rift, the Amish will set it aside and do what needs to be done.
She blinks back tears. “It’s such a foreign thing. Murder and jail and legal problems. I don’t know what to do.” The tears spill, but she swipes them away. “I can tell you one thing, Kate Burkholder. Jonas Bowman is a lot of things and he’s sure not perfect, but he is not a killer.”
“I’m a civilian here in Big Valley,” I begin. “I don’t have any authority or resources, but I’ll help any way I can.”
“We’re not ones to ask for help, but if there was ever a time when we needed it, this is it.” She sets her hand over mine. “Thank you.”
I pull out my notebook and set it on the table in front of me. For twenty minutes we cover the situation from beginning to end. Jonas’s father being put under the bann and silenced. Ezra Bowman’s death. The ensuing feud. What I’m looking for now is new information and insights from someone close to Jonas rather than the perspective of a stranger.
“What was Jonas’s state of mind after the death of his father?” I ask.
“We’d been married a little over a year at the time.” The smile that follows is fraught with angst. “Losing Ezra was a shock. He was such a strong man. Sometimes he didn’t even seem mortal. It was as if nothing could ever stop him or take him down, not even the nature of life itself.”
Hearing her speak of the larger-than-life Ezra Bowman is like watching a silent, black-and-white film. I remember him as an outspoken man with a piercing gaze that could send even the toughest of the tough running home to Mamm. When he spoke, it was with great passion—and you listened. More than once I recall him arguing with my own datt over some topic to which I wasn’t privy. Ezra Bowman was never unkind, but I was afraid of him.