Page 3 of Goodbye Paradise
In those rare moments when I caught Caleb wearing a pained expression, he always looked away. Whatever it was that bothered him, it was something he did not want me to see.
And I always had a strong desire to comfort him, which would never be tolerated, of course.
When we were at prayer, I spent a good portion of my time praying for his safekeeping and happiness. The other portion was spent apologizing to God for my sinful preoccupation with him.
As they did before every dinnertime, daughters began to file into the room, each one of them bearing a pan or a dish. It was the families’ job to feed the bachelors three times each day. During an ordinary work week, mealtimes were the only moments when the daughters and the bachelors saw one another.
There was always supervision. Even now, Elder Michael stood at the head of the table, his serious eyes watching the proceedings, vigilant in the face of possible sin.
The swish of skirts continued. Since the daughters were made to dress alike, in long, roomy pastel dresses of identical design, all the swishes sounded the same.
A plate, napkin, and cutlery were placed in front of me. And I saw a particularly succulent chicken casserole land on the table as well. I kept my eye on it, even though someone quicker than I would probably reach it first, just after the prayer.
There was never quite enough to eat in the bunkhouse. More than two dozen hungry farm workers can put away an awful lot of food. None of us was ever truly full. And nobodyevergot fat. Only married men had that privilege. In the family houses, a man was king, with a small army of women and children who were all vying to be the one who pleased him best.
That’s what the Ezras and Calebs of the bunkhouse were working toward — their own little promised land.
One particular skirt swished to a stop behind us. “Evening Caleb,” a soft voice said.
I did not look up for two reasons. In the first place, I did not need my eyes to identify Miriam. She had been a part of our lives since I could remember. Our mothers were all friends. As children, the three of us had climbed onto the school bus together back when that was allowed.
Miriam and Caleb always seemed meant for one another, too. It wasn’t something we talked about. It justwas. Caleb showed Miriam the same favor as he showed me, helping her whenever possible. He even had a special smile for Miriam, which I coveted. It was a smile that knew secrets.
The other reason I did not turn around to greet Miriam was as a favor to them both. My lack of notice helped them have a brief and whispered conversation. It was the only sort of conversation they could have, except on those rare occasions when there was some sort of party. A barn raising, or a christening, maybe. Otherwise, the daughters and the bachelors were kept apart.
“I need to speak with you,” she said in the lowest possible tone.
Caleb answered under his breath. “After supper I’ll change the oil on the Tacoma.”
With the message received, Miriam darted away without another word.
Elder Michael began to say a prayer, so I bowed my head. And then there were “amens” and the passing of dishes.
I did, in fact, secure a chunk of the chicken casserole, as well as a rice dish and some potato. This I forced myself to eat, even though I felt ill. Because you did not pass up food in Paradise.
* * *
Two hours later, I lay in my bed, shaking. From fear, not illness.
In front of me, I held my Bible. Quiet prayer was one of the few activities acceptable just before curfew. So I often sat here with the heavy book on my lap, thinking.
Or worrying. And tonight I was definitely doing that.
After our meal, our Divine Pastor had walked into the bunkhouse common room. All conversation stopped, of course. He was accompanied by Elder Michael and two others.
“It has come to our attention that a handgun has gone missing from the tool shed,” our Divine Pastor said.
I’d felt Caleb’s body go completely still beside me.
“I must ask,” our Divine Pastor continued, “Which of you was the last to perform an inventory of our supply of tools?”
Lord in heaven.My stomach cramped in distress. Slowly, I raised a shaking hand into the air.
“Joshua,” our Divine Pastor barked. “When was this?”
“T…two weeks ago,” I quavered. “After the pumpkins were in.” I always volunteered for inventory jobs, because it meant brainwork instead of outdoor labor.
“Did you perform the inventory piece by piece? Or do you keep an old list as a guide? I am trying to discern how easily you might have erred. Which might, in turn, help me learn when the gun went missing.”
