Leonard, his arms loaded with boxes of paper, didn’t see Roman’s invention until he banged his shin on it. He muttered under his breath as he hobbled to a nearby chair.
He dropped the boxes and rubbed his leg with both hands. “Who put that dumb board in the way? Are you trying to cripple me?”
“Nee, one cripple at this company is enough,” Roman said.
He added another set of pages to the binder and stomped on the foot pedal with extra force.
Joann came and picked up the boxes Leonard had dropped. “It’s a clever idea, Roman, but you should have warned us you put it here. A few words would have spared our friend this pain,” she said.
Leonard stood and took the boxes from Joann. Grudgingly, he said, “I’m sorry about the crippled remark.”
“Forget it. We’ve got work to do,” Roman said, then continued to bind sets as his embarrassment subsided. Joann’s gaze clashed with his briefly before she walked away. She was right. He should have warned them, but he knew she was speaking about more than a bruised shin.
The license number was still in his pant pocket. Would turning it over to the law prevent another attack? He struggled with his conscience as he tried to decide the right thing to do.
Chapter Ten
Was he ever going to speak to her again?
Joann endured the rest of the day without a word from Roman. Mostly, she kept her head down and stayed out of his way. He knew she’d been talking about the license number when she made that comment about warning folks. She’d seen the look of annoyance that flashed across his face.
It seemed that every time she made a little progress with understanding him, they clashed over something else. She should just give up and accept that they would never get along.
It was almost eight-thirty in the evening before they stopped working, but when they closed the front door, stacks of the Family Hour had been printed, stapled and addressed. All that was left was to take them to the post office first thing in the morning.
The sun was setting by the time they gathered in front of the building. Cricket was still waiting patiently at the hitching rail. However, the two-wheeled cart Andrew had loaned Joann wasn’t equipped for nighttime driving.
“Roman, I have an extra set of battery-operated flashing lights you can use to get you home,” Gerald said.
“Danki,” Roman went with Gerald to get them and the two men made short work of affixing them to the tailgate of the cart.
Leonard and Mabel stood with Joann. Mabel said, “We’re going to run over to the hospital and see if Otis needs anything. Can we give you a lift home?”
The couple already had a sixty-mile round trip ahead of them after a long and tiring day. They didn’t need to go out of their way to drop her off. “No, you go on. I’ll be fine. See you in the morning and please send word if Otis is worse. Tell him we are all praying for him,” Joann said.
Mabel kissed Joann’s cheek. “We will.”
After she and Leonard drove away, Joann stood on the sidewalk and watched Roman climb into the cart. She said, “Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Get in.” His first words in four hours.
“Nee, really, the walk will do me good.”
He sighed heavily with frustration. “Get in. I’m not letting you walk home in the dark.”
It wasn’t exactly an invitation, but she really didn’t want to walk after such a long day. She climbed up onto the small benchlike seat. The cart was much narrower than the normal buggy. She and Roman were pressed together from hip to knee. The high arms of the seat left no room for her to move away from him. The result was a long, dark and exquisitely uncomfortable ride. He didn’t say a word, and she couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound foolish.
When they finally reached her brother’s lane, she jumped down. “Danki, I appreciate the ride. I’ll be driving myself after this, so you won’t have to pick me up. Good night.”
She raced up the lane like she had a pack of wild dogs coming after her. When she stepped into her brother’s kitchen, she realized she’d been right about one thing. Hebron had more to say on the subject of her job. He was waiting for her.
She endured an hour-long lecture about being content with the simple life their ancestors had envisioned. She knew that Hebron believed what he was saying. She also knew he had her best interests at heart. She accepted his admonishment quietly. When he was finished, she explained she would only be working as a cleaning woman at the office starting on Monday, and he was content with that.
The following morning, she arrived at the office just as Leonard and Gerald were carrying boxes of magazines out to Leonard’s small pickup. He would take them to the post office as soon as it opened. The usually dour Leonard was smiling. “Otis is being released from the hospital in the afternoon.”
“That’s wonderful news.” She glanced inside the building. “Where is Roman?”
“He’s gone to the hospital to help his aunt get Otis home and settled, so he won’t be in today. It’s just the three of us.”
That would make it another busy day if they were to get the paper out on time, but at least she wouldn’t have to be on her tippy-toes around Roman all day. What a relief to have a day without him.
She thought that was what she wanted, but she found herself thinking about him constantly and wondering how he and Otis were getting along. As it turned out, he was on her mind as much when he was gone as he was when he was hovering beside her. No matter what, she couldn’t escape him. In all the excitement she hadn’t mentioned it was their last day together. Would he care?
On the drive home that evening, she passed the turnoff to the sawmill and was tempted to stop. Would he be there yet? What excuse would she give for showing up like this? She realized how foolish she was being and hurried on, determined to forget about Roman Weaver. Come Monday, she would be back at the bookshop in the afternoons, three days a week. She would clean on Saturday when the printing office was closed. Their paths weren’t going to cross very often anymore, and that was a good thing.
That night, she dreamed about meeting the Friendly Fisherman, a kindly Amish man who looked like her grandfather with his long gray beard, who laughed with her and not at her, and who admired her keen mind. She awoke early with a bubbling mixture of hope and dread churning her stomach. The sun wasn’t yet up when she slipped out of her brother’s house and made her way to the lake.
Please, please, please let there be a letter from him.
As dawn broke, Joann entered her favorite spot and saw a raccoon washing his breakfast of clams on the rocky shore. She smiled. “Good morning, sir. Are you the Friendly Fisherman?”
The raccoon paused, his tiny hands grasping a cracked shell. He bared his teeth at her, then waddled away to eat in peace somewhere else. She called after him. “Ja, go away you old grump. I know a fellow just like you.”
Annoyed with herself for letting thoughts of Roman spoil the glorious morning, she crossed the clearing to the log and pulled out her jar. There was a new letter inside. She sat down, unfolded the small pages and began to read the strong, bold writing with eager anticipation.
Dear Happy Angler,
Your idea for a mailbox is quite clever. I never would have thought of it. Now I know I can look forward to your notes come fair weather or foul. I’m truly sorry to hear about your troubles. To own a house is a fine dream, and it must be a hard thing to give up. I pray your circumstances will change.
Don’t ever think your concerns are small or unworthy. I thank you for sharing them with me. I’ll do you the courtesy of returning the favor. I also work with someone who would benefit from a dunking in the lake. Stubborn, willful, hard to please, quick to call attention to my failings. I sometimes wonder if it wouldn’t be better to leave my job, but alas, others are depending on me so I must stay.
You’re trying to make the best of a bad situation and develop a friendship with your coworker. You put me to shame. I must confess I�
��ve done nothing to better our relationship at work. With your wise words in mind, I plan to change that. I will be kinder. I will listen more and judge less. If I make the effort, perhaps the tension between the two of us will lessen over time. It’s worth a try.
You are right about the sunset. Its beautiful colors were reflected perfectly in the water. It was a remarkable sight. Explain to me why a north wind kept you from fishing. It certainly hasn’t been cold. I used to fish a lot, but not as much in recent years. I remember now why I liked it so much when I was a boy. It’s the peacefulness. Well, landing a big fish is fun, too, although I have trouble holding a rod these days.
I’ll be sure to try the orange hopper. Any tips, fishing or otherwise, will always be welcome from you.
As ever,
Your Friendly Fisherman
Joann laid the pages on her lap and stared out at the lake. A strong south wind was starting to blow, and it made the water gray and choppy. She should go over to the north shore and try fishing for bass along the rocky outcropping there. It was spawning season for them, but she didn’t unpack her pole. Instead, she spent a long time thinking about the Friendly Fisherman’s letter.
He found her advice sound and wise. That made her feel good. It took away some of the uneasiness she felt about continuing the correspondence.
How was it that a stranger understood her feelings and took her words to heart when so few others did?
She read the note again. So he didn’t know the rhyme about the wind in the north. He surely had to be an Englisch fellow. Her Amish grandfather had taught her the saying years ago. She assumed everyone knew it.
Her conscience pricked her at the thought that he might be a married man. He hadn’t said one way or the other. Although she knew her letters were harmless, not everyone would think so. If he were Englisch, she should give up writing to him.
She pushed the nagging doubts aside. She didn’t know that for sure. He enjoyed her letters. He looked forward to hearing from her and she enjoyed hearing from him. There was nothing wrong with that. She wouldn’t give it up. She had already given up so much.
She took out her pencil and notebook and started a new letter.
When she was finished, she tucked the jar back in the knothole and headed for home, where she had a full day of farm work waiting for her.
Later, her family took Otis and his wife a basket of food. They stayed briefly to visit and to do whatever chores the pair needed help with. Hebron might disagree with Joann working at the paper, but he would never neglect a neighbor in need. Joann had half-hoped to see Roman there, but his mother told her he’d already gone home. Try as she might, Joann couldn’t stifle her disappointment. It didn’t make sense, but she missed seeing him even if they did sometimes clash.
* * *
Roman spent the day helping his father and brother stack lumber at the sawmill. His mother had stayed the night with Otis and his wife. She wouldn’t be back until late afternoon. Her men were left alone to fend for themselves when it came to cooking, but they managed. His father knew how to make scrambled eggs and cook bacon. They had the same meal for breakfast and lunch.
Roman was pleased to see that Andrew and Faron were becoming friends. The two joked around and worked well together. He was glad for his brother. He knew Andrew missed his company.
It felt good to get back to physical labor, but he realized by early afternoon that he’d put too much stress on his arm. It began to ache and throb wildly. He was going to be in for a long, uncomfortable night.
When evening came, his mother returned and soon had a hot supper ready for them. After that, the family retired early, leaving Roman alone in his small house. The days were growing longer and it wasn’t yet dark.
He was restless. His arm hurt. There was no point in trying to get to sleep early. He wondered if Happy Angler had left him a new letter. He couldn’t believe how much he looked forward to hearing from her. Maybe it was because she didn’t know about his disability. They were equals, simply two people who enjoyed the same pastime. Roman didn’t feel inferior or pitied. He pictured her as an elderly aunt, someone who loved the outdoors and freely gave good advice. What was she like? Should he try to find out? Would her next letter tell him more?
Finally, he gave in to his curiosity and walked to the lake. He didn’t bother taking a fishing pole.
When he reached the clearing, he was happy to find he had a new letter. He lowered himself to the grass and used the log as a backrest while he read the latest note from his friend by flashlight.
Dear Friendly Fisherman,
When I arrived at the lake this morning, I saw a raccoon in our spot. I asked him if he knew you, but he grumbled and waddled away without answering me. Make sure you screw the lid of the jar on tightly if you leave me a letter. Raccoons are curious by nature and enjoy the challenge of opening things.
I’m surprised you don’t know the rhyme about fishing and the wind. I thought everyone knew it. This is how it goes.
Wind from the West, fish bite the best.
Wind from the East, fish bite the least.
Wind from the North, don’t venture forth.
Wind from the South will blow bait in their mouth.
My grandfather taught it to me when I was little. He would only fish when the wind was in the west or in the south, and he always had good luck. I, on the other hand, have not had much success improving my relationship at work. Don’t think me wise. I’m not. I have a terrible tendency to say the worst possible thing at the worst possible moment.
Did you ever wish for the ability to call back the words you’ve said the second they leave your mouth? I wish that every day. Often, I think it would be better if I couldn’t talk at all.
Perhaps that’s why I enjoy writing these letters. I can always erase the words before you see them if I make a blunder. I hope you are faring better than I am with your troublesome work partner.
I will limit my advice here to fishing in the future. I’ve had success with spinner baits and rubber worms on this lake. Both are good choices no matter what the weather and temperature. Another bait you may want to try is a jig-and-pig. The bass really seem to like them, even in the winter.
As always, your friend,
A Happy Angler
Roman chuckled at the idea of questioning a raccoon about his identity. His unknown friend had a good imagination and a good sense of humor. As he read the lines of the fishing rhyme, he vaguely recalled hearing them in the past. His father didn’t enjoy fishing but Roman’s grandfather had. Maybe he was the one who had recited the poem. He died when Roman was only six. He had very few memories of the man. Roman’s grandmother had lived with them until she passed away at the age of ninety-two.
He pulled his small notebook and pencil from his pocket and started a new letter. It took him a long time to get the words just right.
When he finished his note, he tucked the jar securely in the hollow space. He didn’t mind the walk in the dark. There was a full moon to light his way and he didn’t need to use his flashlight.
To his surprise, he did see a light on the far side of the lake. Was it his unknown friend? Or was Woolly Joe looking for a lost lamb? One day, Roman figured he was bound to meet his friend face-to-face, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to. Discovering her identity would likely end their unusual friendship. And he didn’t want it to end. He could put his feelings and fears into words on paper better than he could speak them aloud.
On Sunday morning, Roman joined his family in the buggy for the eight-mile drive to the preaching service. It was being held for the first time at the home of Jonathan Dressler, a rare convert to their Amish faith. Jonathan was a horse trainer who took in unwanted and abandoned horses for an equine rescue organization. He had lived among the Amish for several years now and had married Karen Imhoff, the eldest daughter of Eli Imhoff, the previous fall.
The church service lasted the usual three hours. The bishop and two other ministers took turns preaching
about forgiveness and about suffering persecution for the sake of their faith. In between, the congregation sang hymns from the Ausbund, their sacred songbook.
From his place on the benches near the back of the barn, Roman could see Joann Yoder sitting between her cousin, Sally Yoder, and her friend, Grace Beachy, on the benches to his left. Esta Bowman sat two rows behind them. Several times, he caught Esta smiling at him. Was she tired of Faron already?
Roman was glad he had realized Esta wasn’t the woman for him. He was happy he’d discovered that before things had gotten more serious between them. He didn’t find her sly smiles, overly sweet voice and flighty ways as attractive as he once did.
He glanced toward Joann. He hated to admit it, but he had her to thank for that. She might not have a sweet and attractive way about her, but she had a knack—a sometimes painful knack—of helping him see the truth. About himself and about others. He had come to respect that about her.
Perhaps it was time he told her that.
At the end of the service, Bishop Zook addressed the crowd once more. “We are taking up two special collections today. One is to help purchase supplies to rebuild and replace what was lost at our school. We will have a workday at the school next Saturday and all are invited to come.
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