A Dark Path
DERECHO EVENT: A WIDESPREAD, LONG-LIVED, STRAIGHT-LINE WINDSTORM ASSOCIATED WITH SEVERE THUNDERSTORMS, HURRICANE-FORCE WINDS, HEAVY RAINS, AND FLASH FLOODS—A COMMON MIDWEST OCCURRENCE.
Wind buffeted the buggy as it moved swiftly along Cemetery Road.
Amishman Herman Petersheim had been hoping to make it to town before the storm broke.
He and his wife and granddaughter left early, in fact.
But Esther had insisted on dropping off potpies at the Yoder farm and seeing their new baby.
One cup of siess kaffi, or “sweet coffee,” had led to two, and now not only was his stomach growling, but they were about to get drenched.
“Kumma druff!” he called out to the buggy horse. Come on now!
Tossing her head in protest, the old mare picked up the pace, her steel shoes thudding sharply against the hard-packed dirt.
“Lizzie’s trotting as fast as she can, old man.”
Herman glanced over to see his wife look up from her knitting.
Despite the weather, he smiled. Esther might put out a cantankerous word on occasion, but the woman didn’t have a cross bone in her body.
She kept him in line, he supposed. After fifty years of marriage, he still liked the picture of her, even when she glared at him, which was often.
“You just keep them bossy words and knitting needles to yourself, bottelhinkel,” he mumbled, using the Deitsch term for “old hen that’s ready for the stewpot.”
A giggle sounded from the back seat. Herman looked over his shoulder in time to see their granddaughter, Christina, grin at him.
He grinned back. He couldn’t believe the girl was sixteen years old already. Seemed like yesterday that he’d rescued her from the apple tree in the backyard after she’d climbed too high and gotten stuck.
Esther huffed dramatically. “Sell is nix as baeffzes.” That’s nothing but trifling talk.
“That’s what I do best.” Turning his attention back to the road, Herman jiggled the reins, but not before he saw her mouth twitch.
The cadence of the horse’s hooves lulled him as they rounded the curve and started up the next hill.
He tried not to fret about the approaching storm.
More importantly, he tried not to worry about Christina.
Today, he and his wife were helping her move out of their home, where she’d lived for the last two months.
They were going to miss her terribly, but it was best that she go.
The girl had had some problems with her beau.
Herman figured she’d be better off moving back to her parents’ farm in Painters Mill.
They reached the apex of the hill. This was the spot in the road that always made him a little nervous.
The south side to his right dropped straight down to a deep ravine—and the guardrail was as rickety as an old windmill.
He reminded himself that Lizzie was an experienced buggy horse.
She was strong, too, and handled these snaking, hilly roads with ease.
If they kept up this pace, they might just reach Painters Mill before dark.
Wind-driven raindrops smacked down on the buggy roof like marbles out of a slingshot.
The sky churned as dark and gray as charcoal.
Christina and Esther chattered, seemingly unconcerned.
With dusk pressing down, Herman was thinking about pulling over to light the headlamps when he noticed the vehicle in the distance.
He didn’t much care for the notion of oncoming traffic on this stretch.
Lizzie might be an old hand, but you never knew when some impatient Englischer with two blind eyes and a lead foot was going to get too close.
“Easy does it, girl.” Using the right leather line, he eased the mare a little closer to the guardrail to give the other driver plenty of room.
Blinding rain pelted them. Next to him, his wife pulled a raincoat from the rear seat and draped it over their legs. Herman barely noticed. The car was weaving and approaching fast. Too fast, if he wanted to be honest about it. Through the downpour, the headlights were blinding and bright.
Esther had noticed the other driver’s recklessness, too. “Was der schinner? ” she snapped. What in the world?
“Oh, sis yuscht! ” Christina cried. Oh no!
The car barreled toward them, left of center and closing in fast. Herman caught a glimpse of a silver grille. The slash of rain in high beams. The roar of the engine deafened him as it neared, so close he could feel the hot breath of it against his face.
“Move over!” Herman shouted to Lizzie, and tugged hard on the right line.
The mare obeyed instantly, but she couldn’t get them out of the way fast enough.
The vehicle sideswiped the rear quarter panel of the buggy, driving it into the guardrail.
Steel ground against wood. Out of the corner of his eye Herman saw the guardrail give way.
The rear end of the buggy crashed through and swung down.
Both back wheels dropped off the side of the road and into space.
Esther cried out as the momentum slung her across the seat and out the passenger door. “Herman!”
From the back seat, Christina yelped. “Grohs-mammi! ” Grandmother!
Herman glanced over to see his wife hanging on to the doorframe with both hands, her expression terrified and strained. “Hold on!” he cried.
Sliding across the seat, he leaned and reached for her. But he wasn’t close enough; he couldn’t let go of the reins. “Christina!” Vaguely, he was aware of his granddaughter climbing into the front seat to help him.
“Pull your grandmother into the buggy!” he shouted.
“Ja! ” Without hesitation, the girl scooted over to the door and thrust out her hand. “I’m here! Grohs-mammi! Grab my hand!”
The buggy was tilted at an angle with the passenger door opening facing down, putting all three of them in danger of falling through.
Keeping one hand on the reins, Herman leaned over as far as he could and latched his hand around his granddaughter’s arm to keep her from falling out. “I’ve got you.”
Beyond, hanging on to the doorframe with both hands, face contorted with the exertion of supporting her own weight, Esther couldn’t reach for her granddaughter’s hand.
“We’re falling!” she cried.
“No, we’re not.” Holding on to Christina with all his might, Herman turned his attention to the horse in the desperate hope she could pull them out.
“Kumma druff! Go, Lizzie, go!” Snapping the lines with his one free hand, holding on to his granddaughter with the other, he urged the animal forward.
The big mare fought to haul them back onto the road, but the buggy was deadweight behind her.
The front wheels were embedded in mud, the rear wheels dangling off the cliff, useless.
“I’m not going to let go of you!” he cried to Christina. “Try to grab your grandmother’s hand!”
Holding on to the doorframe with one hand, the girl leaned out farther. Just as she got hold of her grandmother, the buggy pitched violently.
A thousand pinpricks of terror stabbed Herman when he saw his granddaughter being dragged from the buggy by her grandmother’s weight.
He saw Esther’s mouth open in a silent scream.
A cry escaped Christina as she slipped through the door.
To his horror, Herman wasn’t strong enough to hold on to her.
For the first time in the eighty-two years he’d been on this earth, he cursed.
“Christina!” Releasing the reins, Herman twisted and lunged for his granddaughter with both hands extended, but he wasn’t fast enough.
A single cry rang out.
As if in slow motion, both women tumbled into the ravine.
When you’re a cop, there’s a certain energy that comes with the threat of inclement weather.
In northeastern Ohio, conditions can range from blizzards to tornadoes and just about everything in between.
This evening, as I scroll through myriad bulletins and live radar, I’m dismayed to see a line of thunderstorms training to the northwest, cloud-to-ground lightning, flooding, all of it exacerbated by a high-wind warning.
My name is Kate Burkholder and I’m the chief of police of Painters Mill, a pretty little village located in the heart of Ohio’s Amish country.
Things are usually pretty quiet here; my small department typically handles the mundane: speeding tickets, loose livestock, and the occasional domestic dispute or bar fight.
But with heavy weather bearing down, I know the situation can change in a heartbeat.
“Chief?”
I look up to see my dispatcher, Lois, standing in the doorway of my postage-stamp-size office. “Mr. and Mrs. Petersheim just drove in and want to talk to you.”
Surprise ripples through me. Rachel and Wayne Petersheim are Swartzentruber Amish. I don’t know them personally, but I see them around town every so often; they have a small herd of children and run a dairy operation a few miles to the south.
“Send them in,” I say.
Stepping aside, Lois ushers them in.
The couple are middle age and dressed in traditional Amish garb.
Rachel is wearing a dark blue dress with a white halsduch, or apron, and a gauzy white kapp covered by a black bonnet.
Wayne is clad in a blue work shirt. Dark trousers.
Suspenders and a straw summer hat. Judging by the anxiety etched into their expressions, they’ve got something serious on their minds.
“Guder nochmiddawk,” I say. Good afternoon. I gesture to the two visitor chairs adjacent to my desk. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s Mamm and Datt.” Looking anxious, Rachel settles into a chair. “They were supposed to be here two hours ago and they didn’t show. We’re starting to get worried.”
“Where are they coming from?” I ask.
Wayne takes the chair next to her and removes his hat. “Their farm up on Cemetery Road.”