A sort of dark excitement surges. The kind that comes when I know a case is about to break. “Did your son have to have surgery to repair that broken arm?”
“Doctor Alan Johnson in Millersburg operated a couple of days after the accident. Had to wait for the swelling to go down. He put in some kind of pin.”
“Mr. Nolt, I’d like to speak with you in person. Would it be all right if I drove over?”
Another short pause. The sound of a shuddery exhale.
He knows, I think.
“I’ll let my wife know you’re coming,” he says and ends the call.
*
Vernon and Sue Nolt live in a nicely kept Craftsman-style home across the street from Sutton’s IGA. I pull onto the asphalt driveway and park beneath the shade of an elm tree. Ahead, I see a detached two-car garage and a yard that’s fenced with white pickets. A geriatric-looking mutt of dubious pedigree barks at me between the slats of the fence when I get out of the Explorer.
I’m ascending the concrete steps to the front porch, when the door swings open. An elderly man shuffles out. His eyes dart to mine, and in that instant I see a combination of anticipation and hope, and I know that after thirty years of not knowing the whereabouts or fate of his son, he’s ready for the mystery to be solved, even if the news is bad. On his heels is a plump woman of about seventy. I don’t realize they’re Mennonite until I notice her print dress, the blue-and-white-checkered apron tied at her waist, and her head covering.
“Mr. and Mrs. Nolt?” I cross to them, my hand extended, and introduce myself. “Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice.”
The elderly man’s hand feels quivery and frail within mine. “I’m Vern.” He steps aside to introduce his wife.
She’s already moving around him, her eyes seeking mine. “Please tell us. Have you found him?” She looks down at my extended hand. As if it’s an afterthought, she gives it a single, weak shake. “Did you find Leroy?”
“I’m not sure yet, but there were some human remains found here in Painters Mill. I’d like to talk to you about your son.”
They stare at me, hanging on my every word, and I remind myself that I’m talking about a son they’ve hoped would return alive for thirty years now. “Mr. and Mrs. Nolt, can we go inside and talk?”
“Of course. Where are my manners?” The woman wipes her hands on her apron and then opens the door. “You can call me Sue. I made some iced tea. Come on inside.”
Vern motions me through the door, and I follow her into the living room. The interior of the house is murky and cramped but not unpleasant. Dust motes fly where sunlight slants in between lacy curtains at the front window. The aromas of vanilla potpourri and recently baked bread add a comforting countenance. I didn’t know my grandparents, but if I ever imagined walking into their home, it would have been like this one.
I motion toward the Amish quilt hanging on the wall above the sofa. It’s heirloom quality, a stunning combination of mauve and cream and black with the iconic eight-point star in the center. “It’s beautiful,” I say. “Did you make it?”
Sue’s smile is a sad twisting of lips. “It was a birthday present from Leroy a few weeks before he disappeared. I’d been looking for one with those colors.” As if catching herself drifting back to a past that’s long gone, she clucks her lips. “I’ll fetch the tea.”
Vern asks me to sit, so I take the brocade chair adjacent to the coffee table. Looking nervous, he eases himself onto an overstuffed sofa that’s crowded with crocheted pillows, and I wonder how many nights his wife stayed up late, making those pillow covers, wondering where her son was, if he was alive, if she’d ever see him again.
“You have a nice home,” I tell him. “How long have you lived here?”
“We bought it back in 1975.” He smiles, and I notice that his teeth are still straight and white. “Leroy was ten. The first thing we did was build the tree house in the backyard. I can’t tell you how many nights he spent out there with his friends, telling ghost stories and looking at the naked ladies in my National Geographic with the flashlight.”
The thought makes me smile. “Do you have any other children?”
“A daughter, Rachel,” he tells me. “Her name is Zimmerman now. Married a nice Mennonite man. They run the bed-and-breakfast out there by the winery. A Place in Thyme Cottage.”
I pull out my pad and pen and write down the name. “You and your wife are Mennonite?”
He nods. “We left the Swartzentruber Amish shortly after we were married.” He waves his hand as if that part of his life is nothing more than a bad memory. “The bishop wasn’t happy about it, and our church district basically excommunicated us. But their Ordnung was too strict for us.” He grins. “I always liked cars a lot more than buggies.”