Above her, the men had gone silent. Had they seen her?
She darted to the front of the stall and glanced left toward the hogpen. Through the steel rails and a mass of hogs, she spotted the man lying on the concrete. He was moving, head raised, dazed, but looking around. Relief swept through her because she’d thought for sure he was dead.
Her relief was short-lived. The hogs were squealing and running around. Several of the larger animals surrounded the fallen man. Squealing, one of the pigs darted in and rooted the man with its snout. The man shouted something and smacked the animal with his fist.
“Help him,” she whispered, looking toward the ceiling where the men standing above could surely see him. Why weren’t they helping him?
Sally got a sick feeling in her stomach. A big white boar bellowed, rushed in, and slashed at him with its tusks. The man made an awful sound. She saw a tear on his shirt sleeve. The shocking red of blood. Her teeth began to chatter.
She closed her eyes. “Help him,” she whimpered. “Please.”
The pitch of the hogs changed. Sally opened her eyes. The animals were excited and moving fast, darting close and then retreating. She watched in horror as a big sow latched on to the man’s shoulder and shook violently, the way a dog might shake a squirrel. The man twisted and tried to roll away, but a second pig lunged and bit down on his arm. Sally covered her face with her hands, but it didn’t block the sound of the scream that followed.
“Ohmigod! Ohmigod!” Choking back sobs, she ran from the barn. She knew if the men looked they would see her, but she didn’t care. She didn’t slow down. Didn’t look back. She reached the fence, squeezed between the wires, tearing her shirt on a barb, cutting her arm. But she felt no pain. Then she was on the path, sneakers pounding dirt. Arms pumping. Legs burning. Terror in hot pursuit.
Her own screams chased her all the way home.
August 30, 1985
She arrived at the covered bridge twenty minutes early. She hadn’t told a soul where she was going, and she was so nervous she felt as if she might crawl right out of her skin. But she was excited, too, and glad they’d chosen this place to meet. The Tuscarawas Bridge was special. They’d met here dozens of times over the summer. It was a place of first kisses, whispered promises, the laughter of young lovers, and dreams for the future. Or, if you were alone, it was the kind of place you could just sit and think.
This afternoon was so quiet she could hear the red-winged blackbirds swooping from tree to tree down by the deep pool, and the bees buzzing around the yellow tops of the goldenrod that grew along the muddy bank of Painters Creek. Hefting her satchel, she entered the shade of the covered bridge where it was marginally cooler. She’d worn her best dress today and the black kapp normally reserved for preaching services every other Sunday. Gathering the skirt of her dress, she sat down beneath the window that looked out over the meandering creek. It was so peaceful. She wished for that same peace in her own heart, but it was not to be.
She’d never experienced so many conflicting emotions as she had this past week. The thought of starting a new life with him made her so happy she could barely contain it. Yet the thought of leaving her family behind filled her with sadness. Oh, how she would miss Mamm and Datt and the little ones! How would she get through the day without the love and wisdom of her parents? How could she go to sleep at night without the hugs and kisses of her brother and sisters? Did they know how much she loved them? Would they always remember her?
The alternative, of course, was living the rest of her life without the man she loved—the man she was going to marry—and that wasn’t an option. It didn’t matter that he was Mennischt—Mennonite—and New Order, to boot. He was a good man, kind and hardworking. Most important, he loved her. He wanted to marry her. What did it matter that he loved God in a slightly different way or that his belief system included modern conveniences and driving a car?
It mattered to her parents. She’d tried to explain to them that he would be a good husband. That he would work hard and provide for her and their children. But they were Swartzentruber, the most conservative of all the Amish groups. Her parents were demutig, meaning “low” or “humble,” and they adhered to the strict traditionalism of their forefathers. They drove windowless buggies with steel-clad wooden wheels. Not only did they spurn electricity, but their home was devoid of indoor plumbing and even linoleum flooring. Her mamm wore a bonnet and a dress that reached nearly to her ankles. Her datt never trimmed his beard.