Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [47]
As we whispered and laughed, I caught sight of him now and then out of the corner of my eye, motioning fiercely. Be quiet. We paid no attention.
Finally, he could not take it anymore. During the next song, he got up, walked to the bench in front of us, and motioned people to move aside to make room for him, and plunked down. If we wouldn’t behave, by George, he was going to embarrass us in front of everyone. The song faltered along, and he rocked back and forth on the bench, throwing back his head and roaring loudly, off-key.
We sat frozen in disbelief, too stunned to react. Then, in one motion, we stood and walked out. No one followed. I was so angry that I shook. We hitched up my horse and drove off toward West Grove. Once there, we tied the horse behind Chuck’s Café and called some English friends from the pay phone. They came out from Bloomfield and picked us up.
We hung out with them until late, raging against my father. After midnight, one of them took us back.
The next Sunday, we stopped following church. As the others got up and walked after the preachers to receive their instruction, we remained seated.
People stared, but we just sat there, grim and rebellious.
We hung together, the two of us. We were closely watched as evil young men, and we were instant suspects as the source of all things bad that happened in the community.
Late one Sunday night, a few of us were hanging out at the schoolhouse, just horsing around, when one of my buddies who was joining church was somehow pushed into the front screen door. After a choice phrase or two, he proceeded to tear the door right off its hinges. I don’t know why. Of course, the next day, shock waves reverberated throughout the community, and Marvin and I were instantly and conveniently blamed, although neither of us had had anything to do with it.
Tongues wagged: “The wild, wicked young boys tore up the schoolhouse.” “What will they do next—burn someone’s house down?” “How can it be?” “What can be done?” Everyone clucked sadly and dramatically. One young preacher even began spreading the rumor that we had admitted to the damage.
Marvin and I were indignant. Things were getting out of hand. Should we just hunker down, or should we confront the situation head-on? After discussing our options, we got together one night and went to visit the young preacher.
We rattled into his drive and tied up the horse. Although stunned to see us, he greeted us politely enough, if somewhat stiffly. We visited for a brief strained minute about other things. Haying. The weather. Then we bravely plunged into our subject matter. We told him he had been mistaken and that we had not damaged the schoolhouse door. But we did not betray our friend who had done it. The preacher was in a bit of a quandary. He was convinced in his mind that we’d done it, but there we stood, telling him we hadn’t.
We were polite, but firm and insistent. And innocent. He stroked his long reddish beard thoughtfully, perhaps trying to imagine how he could incorporate this experience into a fire-and-brimstone sermon the next time he preached. But we remained polite and respectful, giving him nothing about which he could wring his hands over and preach. No shocking behavior, no back talk. After some moments of consideration, he gulped and cleared his throat several times.
Then he said carefully and deliberately, “I can believe it, and I want to believe it, and I will believe it, that you didn’t do it.” His stern visage did not soften, not even a fraction.
We thanked him and left it at that.
He was true to his word, whether he actually believed us or not. For that one statement, at least, I have always respected him.
19
As I’ve said, when I look back, I believe Marvin might have stuck it out had I not influenced him. But being the true friend he was, he hung in there with me. Gradually we made our plans to leave once again, saving up a few bucks where we could. I even sold my shotgun for some quick money.
I’m not sure that we would have chosen