by Gaus, P. L.
Inside, Caroline took three tattered books out of a paper sack and arranged them on Miss Beachey’s old desk. Into the pages of one of the books she inserted a single-page note, written in a heavy, unpracticed hand.
Then she took a second note out of an envelope and reread it.
Dear Miss Beachey:
Thank you for taking my call yesterday. By now I’m sure you’ll have heard the details of the death of Jonah Miller and of the rescue of his son.
It is our hope that you can derive some comfort from the fact that Jonah took “Fenimore” for his middle name. You obviously made a great impression on a fifth-grade scholar.
In Jonah’s home, among a collection of numerous books, my husband found these three—a collection of American poems, plus Moby Dick and The Last of the Mohicans—which I am sure Jonah would want you to have. As you’ll note, they were often read.
In between the pages of The Last of the Mohicans, we also found this note. We are not certain when it was written, but Jonah obviously meant it for you. It is evidently several years old.
Sincerely yours,
Caroline Branden
Then she put her letter into its envelope, laid it on the teacher’s desk, and opened The Last of the Mohicans to the page with Jonah’s note. It was an old, yellowed page, started long ago and never sent.
Dear Miss Beachey:
I am not hopeful that you will remember who I am, but I remember you.
All my life I have wanted to thank you for the books.
Lately, I have been thinking
32
Thursday, July 2
9:00 A.M.
AT THE Miller house, Branden parked some distance back, behind an assortment of buggies on the lane, where two Amish boys tended horses beside the wooden fence.
Cal Troyer met them at the sliding doors to the bank barn, on the lower level. Inside, Caroline took a seat on benches with the women, and Cal led Branden to a bench on the side for the men.
The services proceeded for two and a half hours, the preacher and the deacons presiding in front with the bishop, the benches for the women facing those for the men.
There were numerous hymns in German, sung a cappella with a strange, hurried cadence and without harmony.
The first sermon was in German. Cal translated for Branden at times. At one moment, Cal caught a glimpse through the sliding barn doors of Bruce Robertson, listening from outside to the service.
Before the second sermon, the bishop stood and addressed the congregation first in German briefly, and then at length in English, explaining that Brother Roy Miller would preach shortly but, though it was not their custom for him to do so, he allowed as how the death of his son and the ordeal of his grandson gave him, as bishop, a little leeway in this regard.
He explained how he had come reluctantly to the conclusion that Pastor Troyer and Professor Branden should be approached to help them locate Jeremiah. He spoke of the dismay he had felt when the ransom note had first arrived. He spoke of the hours on his knees in prayer, and thanked the deacons for their service to him in that regard.
He thanked the people, whom he considered with justifiable satisfaction, had stood by him and his family, faithfully.
He thanked Pastor Caleb Troyer, who again had proven his friendship and goodwill among the Gemie, remarking that if there were to be any persons other than farmers in heaven, let it be the likes of Pastor Caleb Troyer.
He turned in Branden’s direction and told the congregation of the general nature of Jeremiah’s rescue, without mention of the shooting.
And he opened The Book, read from it in High German, and continued for forty minutes, explaining what he had learned through his recent ordeals.
First he read from the book of Jonah. In Chapter Two, he read as far as verse eight, paused, and read it again in English, giving it word-by-word emphasis: “They that cling to worthless idols, forfeit the grace that could have been theirs”—tying it to the story of his late son Jonah, explaining how their Jonah, just as the Jonah of old, had run not from them, but from God.
The bishop emphasized that he considered it an exceedingly great mercy that he had been shown, on the day of their Jonah’s death, that, like Jonah of the Bible, his son had come to his senses. That he had turned, at last, back into the will of the Almighty.
Then the bishop turned to face little Jeremiah, who was seated on the front bench among the older men. He opened an English Bible to Psalm 139, read it, and then spoke directly to Jeremiah.
“Jeremiah, you are seated with the men today in a place that should have been your father’s.”
His voice faltered. Tears filled his eyes. Branden fought a tightening in his throat and found his cheeks wet with tears. He looked over to Caroline, who watched the bishop, also with tears.
“And I say to you today, Jeremiah, that your father was truly a prodigal. A wanderer, when he need not have been. And although it was not your lot to have known your father long, he died on the land of his people, trying to bring you home. In truth, bringing himself home, too.
“I also say to you that Psalm 139 is now yours, as it was your father’s. You carry his blood in your veins, and you’ll need Psalm 139 when your time of the Rumschpringe arrives.”
The bishop then turned to address the entire congregation.
“The Lord has shown me two voices speaking in Psalm 139.
“First there is the voice of Jonah. It is a voice that proclaims that one cannot outrun the reach of God. This is the promise that has sustained me since the Meidung. That our Jonah could not run so far away as to escape God’s call on his life. The Jonah of scriptures could not do this and neither could our Jonah. This first voice, a promise from God, has sustained my prayers in all the years that Jonah has been gone.
“And in all these days that Jeremiah has been gone, the second voice of Psalm 139. ...”
The bishop stopped, struggled with his emotions, brought a handkerchief to his eyes, and wept. Jeremiah rose from his seat on the bench, came forward and embraced his grandfather. The bishop knelt down, whispered in Jeremiah’s ear, kissed his hair, and waited for him to reclaim his place among the men.
“The second voice of Psalm 139 promises that we cannot be found so far along into harm’s way, or be taken so far into our enemy’s grasp, as to outdistance the abilities of God to provide for our safety.”
He concluded his remarks by reading again from Psalm 139, verses seven through ten, in English for the benefit of the Brandens:
7Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
8If I go up to the heavens, You are there.
If I make my bed in the depths, You are there.
9If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
If I settle on the far side of the sea,
10Even there, Your hand will guide me,
Your right hand will hold me fast.
After a second sermon and a little more singing, the bishop’s wife and her daughters-in-law served a meal in shifts in the big house. The men sat together, eating heartily, talking little. The women ate next, also together, while the men gathered outside under the trees on the front lawn and talked. Some smoked. Others carried benches up from the barn and sat together, with the hooks of their vests undone.
Out by the fence at the lane, young Jeremiah stood in the middle of a ring of eager Amish boys and told the story again of how his father had taken him up to the great lake.
After a period of time, the bishop appeared with Mrs. Miller and Isaac, as women gathered on the front porch to watch. Several lads came forward, carrying a large wooden table and six hickory chairs. They placed the furniture on the lawn in front of the Brandens and stepped back to allow the bishop to speak.
“Mrs. Branden. My wife and I want to express our appreciation for your kindness and for the efforts of your husband.”
He stepped to the long table and ran his fingers over the grain, remembering. It was made of curly map
le, stained a light cream color, hand rubbed and hand waxed, the elaborate grain of the wood giving it an elegant pattern of rich curls. The six chairs with maple seats and bent hickory backs fit easily under the long table, three on a side with room to spare. A patina of dust covered both table and chairs.
“My wife has kept this table in the barn all these years against my better judgment. It is plainly too fancy for an Amish home. Our son Jonah made it many years ago, and we’d like you to have it now. The chairs too.”
Caroline looked to Cal, who smiled his approval.
“Then, my son Isaac will deliver it tomorrow, if that is acceptable to you, Mrs. Branden.”
Then Bishop Miller motioned for the people to gather beside him on the lawn. Cal stepped back and joined the crowd. Bishop Miller positioned Caroline and the professor at one end of the table, and then stood at the other end of the table and waited for the people to gather around and settle down. Jeremiah pressed forward and stood by his grandfather.
“Herrn Professor Branden. We are a plain and simple people. We think, some would say, too slowly. And our judgments are not always perfect. But, once we are sure of our course, we are a determined and steadfast folk.
“It is not our way to take oaths, and I will not do that now. But neither is it our way to say one thing and do another. We do not swear or pledge, but our word is our bond.
“I do say this much, though. You are known among us, Professor. The people here in this valley will stand by you in anything you may ever need.”
Later, at their car, men and women gathered again to say their good-byes. When the small crowd had cleared, Cal came forward and leaned over at Caroline’s window on the passenger’s side.
“I’m still not certain what it was that you and Ricky Niell noticed about Mel Brikker,” Cal said. “Robertson hasn’t seemed to get anything about it out of Niell either.”
Branden sat behind the wheel with a smirk and said, “Mel Brikker called him Jonah.” Then he drove away smiling mischievously at Cal in his rearview mirror, letting the pastor figure out what it meant on his own.
33
Saturday, July 4
11:30 A.M.
ON THE Fourth of July, Ricky Niell strolled into the Brandens’ backyard with a beaming Ellie Troyer on his arm. He nodded to Cal Troyer, and Cal brought them onto the large screened porch where Caroline greeted them. The four took seats in the wicker chairs near the screens and studied the collection below of two dozen or so neighborhood children, parents, college deans, professors, students, friends, and families who gathered each Fourth of July on the Brandens’ lawn.
Sheriff Robertson stood with Arne Laughton, president of Millersburg College, beside Branden, out at the cliff edge of the yard, where Branden’s Civil War cannon was trained over the eastern valleys. The president had been speaking earnestly of salaries, chairs, and commitment, saying, “We’ll never be able to match an offer from a university, Mike. You know that as well as anyone.”
Branden smiled in his wool uniform, Union blue. The cannon was charged and fused. He held a smoldering linstock in one hand, and it gave off a lazy, meandering line of smoke. “It’s not the money.” he said, toying idly with the linstock. It never was, he thought. Never would be. It hadn’t been when he had finally given the unopened FedEx package to Caroline. He had told her that she could open it, if she wanted. She had let it lie unopened on their kitchen table for a week and then had given it back to him, saying, “As you said, Michael, it might become entirely too complicated to open it.” He had smiled gratefully.
“It’s not the money,” he said again, absently.
“Then what?” Laughton pushed. “You already occupy the most prestigious chair at the college.”
“I’m going to explain this to you only once more, Arne. Then you’re going to give us what we want.” He looked up to Caroline and then back to Laughton. “I’ve got a wife who gets up every day at five A.M. and stands on the porch to greet the dawn. Watches the sunrise and reads the 139th Psalm. She and Cal Troyer have been working on a way to turn her unusual sensitivity to children’s struggles for good, and that’s what we intend to do.”
“Whatever you want. We intend to keep you,” Laughton said expansively.
Sheriff Robertson’s eyes glinted delightfully, and he folded his big arms, more than a little amused by the way Branden was handling the college president.
Intently, Branden said, “I want the tuition benefit for ten children.”
Laughton’s expression clutched. He almost blurted out, “But you’ve got no children!” but caught himself, astonished.
Branden noted this and said, directly, “Right, Arne. We have no children.”
Laughton’s eyes registered dismay, unaccustomed as he was to level forthrightness.
Branden continued, “We want the tuition benefit for ten children, five to be designated by me, the others by Caroline. Anyone we choose, any time, now or in the future. They’re going to go to Amish kids who are trying to make the change into English life. A memorial, if you will, to Jonah Miller.”
Laughton’s jaw hung slack. Robertson grinned from ear to ear. Branden’s face showed strength of will.
“The price of my staying on at Millersburg College is the education of ten children.”
Laughton realized he had been called. “Tuition for ten students?”
“Full tuition, now or in the future. Five for those I’ll designate. Five for Caroline.”
“Mike, you’re out of your mind.”
Branden shrugged as if he could not have cared less.
“Free tuition at Millersburg College for ten students?”
“Free tuition at any college in the nation,” Branden insisted, “for four years each, five years if any of them should need it.”
“The Board’ll never accept that, Mike.”
“That’s our price.”
Laughton blurted, “The tuition benefit’s exclusively for the children of faculty,” instantly regretting it.
“By the end of summer, you’ll have my resignation.”
“Don’t be rash.”
“The way I figure it, Arne, a FedEx envelope on my desk makes it considerably less than rash. Makes it, in fact, eminently reasonable,” Branden said and smiled up to Caroline on the porch. She waved an encouragement, knowing full well what the subject of her husband’s conversation with the college president would be.
“Ten free rides?” Laughton groaned.
“Anywhere in the country. At any college or university. Tuition for ten students, designated at any time, by either Caroline or me.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
Branden’s eyes went cold, flat with determination. “We have no children of our own, Arne. We’re never going to have any. So, that’s the way it is. A chair at a university, or the one here. It makes little difference to me. Flatly, it’ll be Millersburg College with ten tuition benefits in our control, or we’ll be gone by Fall Semester.”
With resignation, Laughton said, “I’ll have to square it with the Board.”
“I’ll need an answer by August 1,” Branden said with an almost offhand nonchalance.
Robertson smiled broadly at Branden’s triumph.
Laughton smiled weakly, then frowned openly, shook his head, and walked slowly back up the slope of the yard, away from the cliffs, bewildered.
Robertson snickered, shook his head, and asked, “You’d leave?”
“Caroline could never do it,” Branden said.
“Then that was a bluff?”
“No. That was a fair price for my staying.”
“Why for Amish kids?” Robertson asked.
“You know how tough the transition is into the English world. There are too many Jonah Millers out there, as it is. Even for the ones who finish high school or finish up an equivalency degree, there’s still a tremendous adjustment. Cal Troyer’s got whole families like that in his church. Well, Caroline and I are going to help. At least help those who
truly are moving out of the Amish life. The first one goes to that waitress, Ester Yoder, if she’ll finish her high school.”
“You’ll just end up encouraging folk to leave their families,” Robertson said.
“We’ll be careful to avoid that,” Branden said. “We’re not trying to lure anyone away. Besides, take Jeremiah Miller. As much as he has his father’s blood in him, and as much of the world as he’s seen, the day might come when he’ll want out too, and why not help him then?”
“I’d expect that his father’s lesson would keep him on the farm.”
“Either way, we’re going be ready,” Branden said.
Robertson eyed him respectfully for a moment, and then changed the subject. “Have you had a chance to talk with Jeremiah Miller?”
“Not really,” Branden said.
Robertson said, “We got a lot from him after he was released from the hospital. Some when I drove him back home from Port Clinton, the rest later. Turns out that Jonah Miller never knew until the very end that the Brikkers had been ransoming his son to the bishop. They had a falling out up on the lake when Jonah started talking about going back to Amish ways. But before that, he had never known about the ransom.”
Branden shook his head.
“And you were right about Jonah,” Robertson said. “He was coming home Amish when he was killed on the lane. Coming home to his father.”
“Then he left the pickup,” Branden said, “intending, if his father would not take him back, to return to the truck, retrieve his clothes from the store in Fredericksburg, and drive away forever.”
