Last summer, Amos was out in the barn on a warm afternoon, when he suddenly had trouble with shortness of breath and funny palpitations in his heart, as if his heart were a bubble ready to burst. At first he thought it was just indigestion from Sadie’s dinner. The next thing he knew he was lying on his side on the barn floor. Menno came in, found him, and an ambulance was called.
His next memory was being in the Coronary Care Unit with oxygen lines in his nose, an IV in his arm, and hooked up to beeping monitors. Dr. Highland—a man who looked younger than Menno—came to visit him on rounds. He was the same cardiologist who had taken care of him in the emergency room.
“I guess this was serious?” Amos asked.
“Pretty darn serious,” the doctor replied. He explained that Amos had suffered a major heart attack—something called idiopathic cardiomyopathy, a disease of the heart muscle.
Dr. Highland couldn’t explain why it had happened. Amos wasn’t in the high-risk category. He had never smoked, never used nonprescription drugs, was trim and fit from a lifetime of vigorous farming work.
After a series of tests, the cardiologist ended up implanting a mechanical device to assist Amos’s heart, and put him on so many pills that he needed a chart to keep track of them all. Over the next few months, Amos’s rebellious heart settled down, but during winter, his heart had weakened to the point of being in heart failure. He would become short of breath and fatigued when walking up stairs, taking a shower, or performing the simplest of chores. And always coughing. He couldn’t take a full breath without coughing.
The doctor recommended retirement—the thought of which horrified Amos. He always wanted to drop in the harness. Then the doctor brought up the notion of a heart transplant. That stunned him too. His response was immediate and strong—no heart transplant for him. He wasn’t afraid to die.
Funny, now that he looked back on that time, he had never felt any fear. His faith had stead him well, and he knew, with as much certainty as anyone this side of heaven can know, that this life was but a hint of things to come.
No, he had no fear of death. It was the thought of leaving his children behind that grieved him.
Amos listened carefully for a moment before tiptoeing into the kitchen. He didn’t want to alert Fern that he was on the prowl for coffee. That would be cause for panic. First, Fern’s. Then, his, when she started scolding him like he was a five-year-old.
The doctor told him panic was bad for his heart; stress of any kind could take a toll on him.
Amos felt as if he couldn’t trust his heart—that it had become as fragile as spun sugar. And he was so tired. Most days, he stayed inside, in his bedroom or at his desk, bored to tears but too weary to do much about it. Some days, he didn’t even get dressed.
When Amos reached the kitchen, he went straight to the coffeepot where he knew the real thing was brewing. He could smell it. The real stuff had a strong, genuine aroma—not like that pale liquid Fern tried to foist on him. He grabbed a coffee mug and frowned at the sight of his hands. Thin wrist bones protruded out of his pajama sleeves like knobs on the kitchen cupboards. And his fingers were trembling in a way that reminded him of his grandfather.
As Amos poured the coffee into the mug, he heard the plod of hooves and wheels of a wagon pull into the long drive. He peered out the kitchen window and the tightness in his chest alleviated a bit. The Bee Man was here. Amos was so happy that he wanted to shout to everyone, Wake up! The Bee Man is here! On the dawn of this spring morning. Instead, he remained quiet. It wasn’t good to get too excited, the doctor had said. He closed his eyes and recited Psalm 23. It was amazing the way the words came to him. After the episode with his heart, Amos had found solace in memorizing Scripture. The ancient words were like a balm, a salve. They eased Amos’s weary soul.
The Bee Man looked exactly the same as he led his mule and wagon slowly up the drive and came to rest at the top of the hill. Amos would know him anywhere: that bushy head of salt and pepper hair on a young, smiling face. In the wagon were beehives, carefully protected inside of solid wooden boxes. The hum of the bees sang in the wind through the open kitchen window. Amos set the coffee down and went out to greet the young man.
“So,” Amos said, pleased. “So, Roman Troyer, you and your bees, you’re back. A sure sign that spring is here.” He pumped the Bee Man’s hand. “Good thing too. Overnight, the cherry trees blossomed out.”
“Good morning to you, Amos Lapp,” Rome said. “We’re a little behind schedule this spring. Everyone wants my bees in their bloomin’ orchards, all at once. We’re plumb wrung out.”
An amused look came into Amos’s eyes. “I suspect the bees are a little more overworked than you might be.”
“I think they would agree,” Rome said, not at all offended. Rome was impossible to offend. Not that Amos would even try. He was fond of Rome, mystery man that he was. Everyone loved Roman Troyer and nobody really knew him. He was vague about where he had been, even more vague about where he was going. He and his bees traveled the country farm roads, somehow appearing right when the farmers needed him, on the dawn of a new day. He traveled at night when the bees were quiet. And he carted his bees away when the job of pollination was done. Rome wasn’t typical for the Amish, who were connected to each other through intricate byways of cousinage that linked just about everyone with everyone else. But Amish Roman Troyer was, through and through.
“I happened to see Menno a few days ago. He’s gotten tall. If I’m not mistaken, he’s got some whiskers on his upper lip. Have you noticed?”
“I’ve been ignoring it.” Amos clasped his hands behind his back. “So, my friend, how have your travels been this winter? Seen many changes?”
“Too many. Villages have become towns. Towns have become cities. The roads are squirming with traffic.” Rome grinned. “Not easy to navigate a mule and wagon loaded with bees.” He leaned against the wagon. “And you, Amos? How was your winter?”
“It was fine,” Amos said. A pale, unenthusiastic answer, but it was all he could muster.
“Looks like your spring planting is a little behind.”
Amos stiffened. “Got a late start.”
Rome tilted his head in genuine concern. “I might have heard a thing or two about your ol’ ticker giving you some trouble.”
Amos waved his worries away. “You know the saying, ‘Treat a rumor like a check. Never endorse it until you’re sure it’s genuine.’ Don’t listen to idle gossip. I’m just fine.”
Amos saw Rome’s eyes flicker over his clothing. He was in his pajamas. And if that weren’t humiliating enough, Fern stepped out on the back porch and lifted an arm in the air. “Who left this on my clean counter?” In her hand was a coffee mug. She spied Amos and stared him down.
“Blast!” Amos muttered. “If my heart doesn’t kill me . . . that woman surely will.” He blew out a stream of air. “She’s our new housekeeper.”
Rome laughed. “Just point me toward the orchard where you want these bees, Amos.”
Amos put a hand to his forehead. “The thing is, Rome, money is a little tight this summer.”
Rome gazed around the farm. “Whenever you can pay is good enough for me.”
“It’s just that . . . ,” Amos started, “with this drought going into its third year, I’m counting on those orchards. We need as much fruit as we can get out of them.”
“I understand, Amos.”
“I was thinking that maybe this next winter, you could leave your bees at Windmill Farm and we’ll look after them. While you’re off adventuring.”
Rome thrust his hand out toward Amos. “Sounds like a deal.”
Amos shook Rome’s hand and stood a little taller, relieved. “Well then . . . cherries are in full bloom. And apricot and peach buds are swelling.” He pointed to the north, beyond the cornfields with their small shoots of green. Amos sighed. The corn planting was over a month late. And what could he do about that? Julia, Sadie, and Menno had done what they could and finall
y, a few neighbors pitched in to help finish it up. If only Menno were able—
He stopped himself, midsentence, and shook that thought off. What kind of thinking is that, Amos Lapp? The Lord God knew what he was doing when he made Menno. A wave of deep weariness rolled over Amos. A nap sounded pretty good about now. He gave Rome a pat on the shoulder and slowly walked toward the house.
“Amos, before you go . . .”
Amos turned around.
“Have you heard about this brown bear?”
“The one with the cub? I’ve heard she’s been poking around, looking for food.”
“The carcass of Ira Smucker’s old dog was found last night. Looked like it was mauled by something.”
“Old Pete?” Amos looked disturbed. “Something got old Pete? Aw, that’s a shame. He was a fine dog.”
“You haven’t seen any sign of bears in your orchards?”
“No, but . . . I haven’t been out there too much this spring.” He turned to head to the house.
“Uh, Amos?”
Amos stopped and swiveled around again.
“Amos . . . you might have heard a thing or two about me . . .”
Ah, so that’s why the Bee Man seemed to be stalling. He walked back to Rome. “In fact, I did.”
“Is Julia mad at me?”
“Frying like bacon.”
“I didn’t really mean to talk Paul into canceling the wedding. We just got to talking and one thing led to another—”
“I know, I know. You never do mean it, Rome, but you’re starting to get a reputation. Some folks are calling you ‘The Unmatchmaker.’”
Rome paled. “Paul and a few other fellows asked me what I liked about being unattached. On the move. About visiting places. That’s all.” He looked miserable. “And then I said that I sure did admire those fellas for knowing, at such young ages, that they had found the one woman they were going to spend the rest of their lives with. The one woman they would grow old with. Day in and day out, year after year, decade after decade. I told them I admired their commitment and resolve.”
“Did you happen to stress the ‘day in and day out’ part?”
“I might have.” Rome blew out a puff of air. “You must admit, Amos, that it is impressive. These boys are only twenty or twenty-one.”
Amos felt his spirits lighten, talking to this young man. “Rome, I’m a man who believes that things have a way of working out the way they’re meant to be.” He patted Rome on his shoulder. “But I daresay you’ve always had a knack for getting Julia’s dander up.”
“Who’s that with you, Amos?” Fern’s voice shot through the air like a cannon from the window above the kitchen sink. “What’s he got on that cart?”
Amos looked up at her. “It’s the Bee Man. Those are beehives.”
Out of the window came, “Beekeepers make a lot of money for doing nothing.”
“Pretty much,” Rome said agreeably.
“And just where does he think he’s putting those hives?”
“Out in the orchards, Fern,” Amos said in a longsuffering voice.
“Looks like he hasn’t eaten a good meal in a fortnight.”
Amos looked at Rome and raised his eyebrows, pleased. “I think that qualifies as an invitation.” He turned back to Fern at the kitchen window. “Set another place at the table for supper tonight.”
Rome waved off the invitation. “I don’t want to cause you any trouble.”
“I’m plenty accustomed to trouble around this place.” She closed the window.
Amos turned back to Rome. “Don’t pay Fern any mind,” he whispered.
She opened the window. “I heard that, Amos Lapp!”
Amos ignored her. That woman could hear a feather fall to the floor! “You come on up to the house when you hear the dinner bell clang. I might not be up to our usual game of chess after dinner, but at least you’ll see the family.”
Rome wasn’t listening. His eyes were fixed on the kitchen window. “What did you say your housekeeper’s name was?”
“Fern Graber. From Ohio. Hank found her. She’s only been with us a few days.” Amos let out a deep sigh. “Feels like months.”
Rome stilled, and an odd look came over his face. Amos noticed, and wondered what he had said to make the Bee Man look uncomfortable, but he had used up all his energy for now. He had to go lie down. “See you tonight, Rome.”
Rome climbed back on the wagon and picked up the reins. When he looked up, Fern Graber was standing in front of his mule. “I’m not going near the back end with all those bees.”
He glanced at the hives in the wagon. “They won’t hurt you. Still too cold this morning. They won’t be active for another hour, when the sun is on the hives.”
She looked as if she didn’t quite believe him, so he stepped down from the wagon and walked over to her. He crossed his arms against his chest. “So, Fern. How did you find me?”
“Wasn’t easy.”
“Maybe because I wasn’t asking to be found.”
“Gehscht weit fatt, hoscht weit heem.” Go far from home and you will have a long way back.
He exchanged a long look with her. “Es is graad so weit hie wie her.” It’s just as far going as coming. He climbed back up on the wagon. “I’d better get those bees out to the orchards.” He slapped the rein on the mule’s rump and gave a curt nod to Fern as he passed. He tried to look dispassionate as he drove on, but the truth was, seeing her disturbed him. This was why he left Ohio in the first place. He didn’t want any tethers to his past. Why couldn’t she have just let him be?
Then his attention turned to Amos. The appearance of his friend added to his troubles. Amos’s skin was the color of frostbite, tainted gray, even though it was nearly May. He looked positively wrung out. Yet, still, when he peered into his friend’s weary face, Rome saw echoes of the lighthearted, carefree, and generous man he had once been. Rome wanted Amos to look the way he used to look, when he first met him, brimming with confidence, eager for another year of farming.
For the last six springs, Rome would wind his way to Windmill Farm to find Amos out in the fields, hanging on to a plow behind a gentle draft horse, or examining his green corn shoots for any signs of pests. Or playing games with his children—Amos was famous for his sense of fun. But maybe this winter had taken a toll on Amos. Maybe his heart was worse off than Rome had heard. Amos looked hopelessly burdened.
As Rome’s wagon traveled along the path that led to the cherry orchard, he surveyed the weed-choked fields. It stunned him to see how quickly the farm had fallen into disarray. Chickens scratched in the dirt beneath an old maple in the front yard. Next to the barn, Amos’s red windmill turned listlessly in the early morning breeze. Rome shielded his eyes and saw that a blade had broken. It seemed that nature was trying to reclaim the land. As he drove along the road, he passed Amos’s north orchards. Some parts looked so jungly that you needed a machete to chop your way through. Only the well-fed horses and sheep in the pasture looked prosperous.
Every spring, Rome looked forward to his visits to Windmill Farm. It had always been one of the prettiest farms he’d come across in his travels. The house sat at the top of a gently sloping bit of lawn shaded here and there with maple trees. The house itself was a graceful rambling structure built of creamy white siding and a fieldstone foundation. Twin chimneys rose from the roof, and a galloping-horse weather vane turned lazily in the breeze. Bird feeders and birdhouses were everywhere. And he meant everywhere! From sophisticated purple martin houses on long poles to hollowed-out gourds and pinecones smeared with peanut butter, hanging off trees. It was all Menno’s doings.
Off to one side, a windmill—red!—an expansive barn, and a white fence surrounding a pasture where livestock grazed. Since he had first arrived in Stoney Ridge with his bees, years ago, that red windmill spinning its wheels at the top of the ridge was like a beacon to him. And a metaphor. What kind of a Plain farmer—other than Amos Lapp—had a red windmill? But Amos was like that�
��he had a love of life that was infectious. And Rome had grown fond of the entire family—irascible M.K., kindhearted Sadie, prim Julia, earnest Menno.
As he passed the vegetable garden, he smiled. Now this was the Windmill Farm he remembered. The garden was neatly tended; flowers bookending tidy rows of young vegetables. There was a sense of peace here, of order and tranquility. It looked the way Windmill Farm should look—could look—if Amos were well. This garden . . . it had always been Julia’s domain, her pride and joy. It looked like a quilt top.
And then he saw her, bent over, at the far end. Up so early! She didn’t seem to hear the thud of hooves and the jangle of the mule’s harness. He could have just hurried the mule along and vanished into the orchards, but he had to face Julia, sooner or later. This seemed to be the chosen morning for facing hard things; now was as good a time as any other. He stopped the mule and tied it to a hitch post. He watched her for a few moments, bracing himself for . . . for what? He doubted Julia would outright yell at him. More likely, she would be frosty. Well, he could handle frosty.
He put his straw hat back on, fitting it snugly. Then he hopped over a few rows of spring onions to catch up with her. “Hello, Julia.”
She popped up from leaning over a row of asparagus, slicing spears at ground level and laying them gently into a basket. She looked at him for a moment, deciding something. “I suppose it wouldn’t be spring without the Bee Man.” She put the basket down and crossed a few rows until she reached him. She came up so close to him that he could see little sweat beads on her upper lip. She wiped the sweat away with the back of her hand. “Hello, Rome. Looks as if life is agreeing with you.”
He felt more than a little surprised at Julia’s calm demeanor. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but he didn’t expect calm. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she threw some asparagus spears at him. It was a rotten thing he had done, even if it was accidental. “No complaints. Did you win any prizes for your quilts this winter?”
The Keeper Page 5
