Page 49 of An Evil Heart
“Katie?”
I turn at the sound of Irene’s voice.
“If Jacob’s not in the barn, check that old cottonwood tree out by the pond,” she says. “He was talking about taking a saw to that old thing.”
It takes all of two minutes for me to ascertain that my brother isn’t in the barn. I clatter down the steps to the livestock stalls on the underside of the barn, climb over the rail, and start across the pasture. Two Jersey cows eye me as I jump the small creek and start up the hill. It is here that the beauty of the land embraces me and I feel the stress of the day begin to melt. The cool shade of the towering elm. The metallic chip of a cardinal calling for its mate. A hundred memories press into me as I crest the hill. The day I fell off our old draft horse and broke my wrist. Sarah and me picking raspberries for jam. Jacob catching his first sunfish in the pond. Sarah and me making mud pies on the bank and decorating them with morning glories.
I’m midway down the hill when I notice the pickup truck parked next to the pond and I realize Tomasetti has stayed to help Jacob cut down the cottonwood tree. My steps falter when I hear the whine of a chain saw. Irene’s words about making new memories echo in the back of my head.
I crest another rise. The scene ahead stops me in my tracks. The tree is large, probably forty feet tall with a trunk as thick as a barrel. The men’s backs are to me. Feet spread, Tomasetti wields the chain saw I bought himfor Father’s Day. Setting the blade against the trunk, he cuts a notch at a forty-five-degree angle, about three feet from the ground. The men are talking. I’m too far away to make out the words over the scream of the saw. Sawdust flies, coating Tomasetti’s work shirt and jeans. He’s wearing safety glasses and gloves, mouth pulled into a grimace, expression set in concentration.
Jacob stands a few feet away, leg cocked. He’s tied a rope around the trunk about three feet above the notch. I’m no stranger to farmwork or do-it-yourself projects, but I feel a smidgen of uneasiness climb up my spine when the sound of splintering wood cracks the air.
Sure enough, the tree leans in the direction of the notch, and then falls away from the pond and, of course, our truck. Branches crash against the ground, bringing a rise of sawdust and dirt.
Tomasetti lowers the chain saw to his side and takes a moment to admire the felled tree. Jacob unsheathes a handsaw and sets to work sawing off the branches. It’s such an unlikely sight that I stop a dozen yards away and stand there, trying to get my head around it, putting it to memory.
I need to walk over to them. Thank my brother. Collect Tomasetti and get back to work. And yet for the span of several seconds, I don’t move. For some silly reason my heart is lodged in my throat and the last thing I want to do is make a fool of myself. Or, God forbid, cry in front of either of them.
Then Tomasetti spots me. His eyes grab mine and hold on. Setting the chain saw in its case, he starts toward me.
A quick check of my emotions, a swipe of my cheeks, and I start toward them. “You slayed the beast.”
“With bare hands, no less.”
He reaches me. I lean in to him for a peck on the cheek, but he pulls me close and presses his mouth against mine. “You missed our meeting.”
“I hope there was no bloodshed.”
“Not a drop.”
Ever aware that my brother is standing a few yards away, that he’s stopped sawing, I pull back and brush sawdust off the sleeve of his work shirt. “I heard we’re getting married here,” I say.
“Your brother suggested it and I concurred.” He narrows his eyes. “That okay with you?”
“I can’t think of a better place.”
“Never thought I’d see the day.”
I turn at the sound of my brother’s voice. He’s standing at the rear of the pickup, an insulated jug of water in his hands. Jacob and I have had our moments, good and bad and everything in between. He disapproves of large swatches of my life. He’s vocal about it, and he’s no pushover when it comes to debate.
I feel myself brace for the anticipated rebuff.
He grins. “My little sister all grown up and getting married.”
The tension leaches from my shoulders. Generally, the Amish aren’t big on displays of affection, whether it’s romantic or familial. Certainly not our family. We learned early on to keep our emotions in check. Not for the first time this afternoon, I feel a mercurial snap of emotion. Without thinking, I go to him. I see him stiffen an instant before I stand on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek.
“Dank,” I whisper.
The moment is so awkward I break a sweat beneath my uniform. Dropping my gaze, I step back. Clear my throat.
Jacob keeps his arms at his sides and handles it well. “We grew up here.You’re my sister. Even though you left, you’re Anabaptist. Blood aside, that alone makes youfreindschaft.”
It’s theDeitschword for the extended family of Pennsylvania Dutch people across the globe. He rolls his eyes toward Tomasetti. “Him, too.” But he punctuates the statement with the hint of a smile.
“You know Bishop Troyer can’t officiate,” I point out.
“I know that.”
