Shunning Sarah by Julie Kramer

advertising baskets for sale. An older woman, carrying some baskets loaded with quilted pot holders and candy, displayed them on a table in the yard. While I counted out money for some cashew crunch, I mentioned being a TV reporter and wanting to tell Sarah Yoder’s story. That was enough for her to close shop without further word.
    Malik was discouraged. “Whatever you’re doing isn’t working.”
    I couldn’t disagree. The buttery toffee candy improved his mood, though I knew that was only temporarily. Our Amish encounters puzzled me because I usually had better luck getting my foot in the door and getting people to open up, even those from other cultures. I suddenly felt cursed. I’d walked into this story knowing the Amish didn’t particularly welcome outsiders, but for some reason, I thought playing up my farm girl past would insulate me from that attitude.
    I also had a romantic, probably unrealistic, idea of their life that I envied. While theirs was simple, mine was complicated. Later I would learn that simple did not mean safe.
    The next Amish residence a couple miles up posted a sign advertising “New Potatoes. Not on Sundays.”
    It was Wednesday, so we drove in and parked near the porch where a young woman and child rocked together. For two bucks, I got a brown bag of baby reds.
    I admired her little boy—a smile under a straw hat—and deliberately made no mention of my line of work. As a covert customer, I chatted her up while purchasing a second bag of potatoes for Malik even though he seemed unenthusiastic about the produce.
    “We were on our way to the Yoder farm to offer condolences for Sarah. But we got confused.” I held out the makeshift map. “Was it this place or this one?”
    She shook her head. “Neither. Their homestead is here.”
    She pointed toward the other side of town. I handed her a pen and she drew in a couple of roads. “This one.”
    I thanked her and we headed in that direction until we reached another mailbox reading Yoder. A handmade sign read Eggs, Crafts, Jelly.
    A young Amish girl stood in the farmyard, holding a basket of various shades of brown eggs when we arrived. To avoid spooking her, Malik had decided to wait in the van with the cashew crunch.
    I bent over and complimented her on her full basket, relating tales of hunting for eggs myself as a child, under sheds and behind woodpiles. Anywhere hens could hide. Back then when I was growing up, they were simply farm eggs, viewed as less desirable than the white dozen sold in stores; now they’re billed as upscale free-range eggs and sell for a premium.
    I asked the child her age and she replied nine. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
    “Hannah.”
    She glanced down at the ground as she answered, but I didn’t take it personally because I’d found that habit common when mingling with children who’d been taught not to talk to outsiders. A white bonnet with side pleats framed her cheeks and shielded her eyes. Yet I could see they were red and suspected she’d been crying.
    “I’m here to talk to someone about Sarah.” I held out the forensic sketch. “Did you know her?”
    “That’s my sister.” The girl reached for the illustration. Now we were getting somewhere. “She was in the bann.”
    “Excuse me, where did you say Sarah was? What barn?”
    Just then the door to the house opened and an Amish womanrushed over in a panic, calling Hannah’s name. She grabbed the girl’s arm and yanked her away, letting the drawing flutter to the ground. “Leave us.”
    “Are you Sarah’s mother?” I followed behind them through the yard until we reached the porch. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Yoder.” She pushed the girl inside and left me alone outside. “I’m here to tell Sarah’s story.” I hoped they were listening on the other side of the door. “I don’t want this to just be about her death. I want to hear about her life. What made her special.”
    Families of victims often responded to that