The Englisher by Beverly Lewis Page B

with this piece.’’ Ben patted the dark leather.
    ‘‘All right, then, I’ll wait and take you over . . . then bring ya back.’’
    Ben nodded in agreement.
    Meanwhile, Zeke looked over at the wooden horses’ heads of all different sizes along the shelf near the wall. He began to pace.
    ‘‘Make yourself at home,’’ said Ben.
    ‘‘Don’t mind if I do.’’ Zeke wandered over to a chair and sat down. He pulled out a folded paper from inside his black work coat and began to read.
    Nearly a half hour later, when Ben had completed his work, he went to speak to Zeke, who was dozing. Ben felt uncomfortable observing the man’s chin and bushy beard leaning heavily on his chest. The tired-out farmer probably needed his forty winks more than Ben needed to wake him.
    He thought of kind Esther . . . and how her husband was fending for himself these days, and he felt genuinely sorry for Zeke.

    Ben and Zeke worked together to right the broken fence. The air was nippier than it had been earlier, even though the sun tried to peek through snow-laden clouds. Still, the exertion of sawing, toting lumber, and hammering kept Ben plenty warm.
    When the job was complete and the fence was up and sturdy again, Zeke took him inside for some hot coffee. Dirty dishes were stacked in the kitchen sink, and Zeke apologized for the mess, saying he didn’t know of any husband who kept a clean kitchen when the missus was away.
    They sat and drank coffee, Zeke at the head of his table and Ben perched on the wooden bench. Zeke offered some sticky buns he’d gotten that morning from a ‘‘kindly neighbor,’’ and Ben accepted, all the while thinking how terribly vacant this big old farmhouse seemed.
    Later, on the way back to the harness shop, sitting under heavy lap robes, they rode near a cemetery, or as Zeke called it, ‘‘the People’s burial ground.’’ Ben was more interested in the interior of the fragile-looking coach, the Plexiglas windshield and the ultra-plain dashboard, than in an Amish graveyard.
    Zeke held the reins as if it were second nature. He was clearly skilled in anticipating the signals, the slight nudges from man to beast and horse to driver that were their essential tool of connection. ‘‘Say now, what would ya think if we stopped off here for a minute?’’ Zeke asked, staring up at the fenced-in cemetery, set high on the hill.
    ‘‘What’s here?’’
    ‘‘I’d rather not be alone in doin’ what I must.’’ His voice had become a whisper, and the pink in his cheeks from the cold seemed to vanish.
    Ben assented, though cemeteries made him feel on edge—always had.
    Zeke turned toward him, the light slowly coming back into his brown eyes. ‘‘Been puttin’ this off for too long, I daresay.’’
    The horse slowed and the carriage came to a stop along the roadside. ‘‘I’m hardheaded, Ben, among other things,’’ Zeke said. ‘‘I berated the brethren for the longest time . . . demanded to see where they buried my poor brother.’’
    Ben wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. ‘‘Your brother died recently?’’
    ‘‘No . . . no. He was just a boy . . . his bones are buried back behind this here graveyard somewhere. Preacher Jesse and the bishop didn’t even bother to give him a tombstone . . . nothin’.’’
    Ben found this startling. ‘‘How did he die?’’
    ‘‘Not for certain on that.’’
    ‘‘Wait now, you’ve lost me,’’ Ben blurted. ‘‘Why are you only now going to see his grave?’’
    ‘‘You don’t know the half . . . and it’s too long a story, I fear.’’ Zeke paused and said nothing for the longest time as they sat in the carriage. ‘‘I should never have uttered a word, and if you think twice ’bout telling anyone, well, I’ll have your hide.’’
    Ben bristled. ‘‘Who would I tell? And do you mean to say his death is a secret?’’
    ‘‘Jah, no one knows his remains were ever found. No one but two of the ministers, that is. And