Free Davey's Daughter by Linda Byler Page B

self-righteousness.
    A need was being met, quite simply. More than one minister stood in his pulpit, or just stood without one, as was the Amish way, and spoke of the goodness of the human spirit in a world where pessimism is often the norm. Hadn’t the loaves and fishes been distributed and twelve baskets left over?
    Stories circulated about groceries being stored in the cellar and every available cupboard, even the attic, at Lydia’s home. A brand new EZ Freeze propane gas refrigerator from Indiana also arrived out of nowhere.
    Lydia hadn’t had a refrigerator all winter, but she said she was thankful for the ice chests on the front porch. Sarah knew she probably didn’t have much to put in them anyway.
    Lengths of fabric, buttons, spools of thread. Coats and shawls and bonnets. The donations were endless. It was enough to make a person cry, Mam said.
    The Beiler family hummed with a new purpose — that of making a different and a better life for the Widow Lydia. Dat had dark circles of weariness under his eyes from lack of sleep, and Mam was way behind with her housecleaning. March was coming in like a gentle lamb, just right for opening windows, airing stuffy rooms, turning mattresses, and sweeping cobwebs.
    Sarah missed another week at market, and Priscilla traipsed over to the Esh family farm with any weak excuse. Sarah had a feeling her visits were more about Omar, Lee Glick, and the Belgians than anything else.
    Then another bolt shook the community. Lydia Esh simply disappeared.
    A frenzied knocking on the front door of the Beiler home was the beginning. Dat stumbled to the door in the dark, his heart racing, his mind anticipating the sight of the familiar orange flickering of someone else’s barn burning yet again.
    Instead, he found a sobbing Omar, completely undone, his mother’s disappearance stripping away all the steely resolve that had upheld him after their barn burned.
    Davey steered him into the dark kitchen with one hand and buttoned his trousers with the other before going to the propane lamp cabinet and flicking the lighter that hung from a string below the mantles.
    As a yellow light flared across the room, Omar sank into the nearest chair. He covered his face with his torn, blue handkerchief, shaking his head from side to side, the only way he could think to show Davey Beiler, the preacher, how bad it was.
    “I’m not surprised. I’m not surprised,” he repeated over and over.
    Dat remained calm and said nothing. Then he looked up to find his loving wife and steady helpmeet — dressed with her apron pinned on and her white covering in place — padding quietly across the kitchen in her house slippers.
    When Levi called out loudly, insisting that someone tell him what was going on, Mam spoke to him quietly and said he must stay in bed, which seemed to comfort him. He obeyed, grunting as he turned on his side and muttering about “ da Davey Beila und all sie secrets (that Davey Beiler and all his secrets)” before falling asleep.
    Omar spoke quickly. He couldn’t seem to stop, his seventeen-year-old voice rising, cracking, falling, telling a journey of pain that had been repressed far too long.
    “It wasn’t the way you think it was in our family,” he began.
    A story of such magnitude had never before assailed Dat’s heart. How could the children have appeared so normal? Omar was saying his mother had always been abused.
    “Abused?” Dat asked.
    “Whatever you call it. He called her horrible names. He hit her across the face, across the back. He pushed her into the gutters when they milked and laughed when the manure surged around her legs. He seemed to hate her and wanted to make her cry. But he couldn’t stand her crying either. If she didn’t cry, he quit easier than if she did.”
    “What about you children?” Dat asked grimly.
    “It wasn’t us. He was good enough to us. Not always nice, but he never laid a hand on any of us — just her.”
    “Why?”
    Omar shrugged,