The Keeper

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  She closed her eyes, taking in the smell of beeswax infused in the cottage walls. She realized now why it seemed familiar. It was a scent she associated with Rome—a fragrance that felt strangely reassuring, that all would soon be right with life.

  A crackle of lightning sounded in the distance. Shuddering, Lulu chose that moment to shake herself off. Julia grabbed a towel from a hook near the sink and began rubbing the dog’s chest. As she put the towel back, she was startled by what she saw on the kitchen table. Medical books were spread out all over the table. She looked closer and saw they were opened to heart disease. She saw a yellow tablet filled with notes Rome had taken about idiopathic cardiomyopathy. And next to the books was an open Bible, with another yellow tablet half-filled with Scriptures he had found that referred to a man’s heart. His handwriting, Julia noticed, was strong and legible, as if he had been well schooled.

  Rome must have bought these books when he went into Lancaster last week.

  She doubted he would want to know she had seen what he was researching—otherwise he would have mentioned it. Maybe not. Rome didn’t volunteer much.

  Something caught at her throat, something that hurt and made a curious melting feeling deep in her chest. A mixture of sadness and happiness, and a strange, sweet ache that after a moment she realized was hope.

  Yesterday’s storm had washed the air, leaving it sweet and fresh. The first solid rain of the summer, Amos thought, and he thanked God for it. At Fern’s urging—some might call it steady nagging—he sat in the rocker on the front porch and tilted back his head, letting the warmth of the morning sun pour over him. Lately, he couldn’t get warm, even on hot, humid days. The problem was his circulation, the doctor said at his last appointment. His heart had to work harder and harder to get oxygen-rich blood circulating through his body. He rubbed his hands. They felt stiff and clumsy, like he was trying to play a wooden whistle with mittens on a winter day.

  Suddenly Menno came flying up the driveway and blew past him into the house, not even acknowledging Amos was there. He heard Menno’s heavy footsteps pound up the stairs, then silence. A moment later, a loud “I FOUND IT!” floated out the upstairs windows. Amos leaned forward on his rocking chair, waiting to see what had been found.

  Menno came thundering down the stairs again, two at a time, out the back door, and thrust his dog-eared Birds, Birds, Birds! book into Amos’s hands. It was opened to the American pipit, a small sparrow-sized bird. “Look. I found my bird.”

  “The American pipit?” Amos read its description. Pipits nest in the Arctic and migrate in spring and fall. Birders sometimes hope (but never expect) to find American pipits. Occasional stragglers appear south of Canada out of season during storms. He looked up at Menno. “You think you spotted a lone American pipit? At the feeder?”

  “No. Not at the feeder, Dad. It eats bugs.” He gave Amos a look as if he couldn’t believe he didn’t know such things. “I found it on the woodpile.” He pulled on Amos’s sleeve. “Come see!”

  He dragged Amos out to the woodpile, with Amos puffing for air, which triggered a coughing fit by the time they got there.

  About ten feet from the pile, Menno stopped abruptly and pointed. “There!”

  Sure enough, there was a small brown bird, perched on top of the woodpile, staring back at them. It was completely unafraid of humans—probably wasn’t accustomed to seeing them, Amos surmised. The bird bobbed and fanned its tail, hopping from one stacked log to another. Its beak disappeared between wood pieces as it nabbed an ant or cricket or spider.

  Amos held up the book and compared the markings of the bird to the picture in Menno’s book. “Well, I’ll be,” he whispered. “I wonder if it missed its north-going bus in the spring? Or maybe it’s early for going south. Probably got blown off its course in yesterday’s storm.” He and Menno stood there, in awe at the sight. “Menno, this little bird travels all the way from the Arctic to Mexico, every year. Across thousands of miles. And yet, it stopped on our farm to pay us a visit.” He patted Menno on the back. “And you alone had the vision to notice it. That was no small coincidence, son.”

  Menno shook his head. “There’s no such thing, Dad. You always said that what man calls a coincidence, God calls a miracle.” Then his eyes opened wide. “I should call the Rare Bird Alert. They need to know about our miracle.” He backed away slowly so he wouldn’t startle the bird. When he reached the driveway, he bolted to the phone shanty by the schoolhouse.

  Amos stayed awhile longer, watching this little brown bird enjoy lunch on the woodpile. “Thank you, God,” he prayed. “For blessings large and small. For a little lonely bird that reminds us that not a sparrow can fall from the sky without your notice.” Finally, he turned to leave. He felt lighter, happier, than he had in a long while. Maybe today, he thought, my heart is starting to heal. Maybe God is bringing me a miracle too.

  June turned out to be M.K.’s busiest month, thanks largely to the American pipit, which seemed to enjoy its stay at Windmill Farm. It was in no hurry to leave. When word got out about such a rare bird sighting, visitors came from all over southeastern Pennsylvania. M.K. had never seen so many people at Windmill Farm in all her life. Many Amish bird lovers, but mostly English ones. Sadie ran to the house whenever a car pulled up the long drive. She peeked out the kitchen window as they emerged from their cars—she was curious about English folk but far too shy to speak to them. Menno, on the other hand, greeted each guest like a long-lost friend. M.K. had the crackerjack idea of charging folks for seeing the bird, but when Fern caught wind of it, she made M.K. give the money back.

  Fern. So meddlesome!

  Fern bought Menno a guest book so that the visitors could sign their names. Each evening, Menno counted up the names. Last night, the number had topped three hundred! Menno was thrilled. Sadie said she was hoping that little bird would soon be on its way and life at Windmill Farm could return to normal. It hadn’t occurred to Menno that the bird wasn’t staying. His face grew red and blotchy as he tried not to cry, so Sadie took it back.

  This afternoon, M.K. was directing cars to park alongside the barn so they didn’t clog the driveway. To her delight, the man in the panama hat drove up in a truck and waved to her. His truck was pulling a big silver recreation vehicle that reminded M.K. of a giant can of soda pop. M.K. ran up to the truck and waited until the man hopped out of the cab.

  “Hello!” she said. “Are you here to see the bird?”

  “I am!” he said, looking pleased. “It’s the talk of the town that there’s a rare bird on an Amish farm. Wasn’t hard to find which farm.” He pointed to the long line of cars.

  “I’ll take you out to see it,” she said, abandoning her duties as parking director.

  As they walked out to the woodpile, the man said, “Let’s see. The last time I saw you, you were in the library, looking for ways to make a quick buck. Did you have any luck with the shell game?”

  She frowned. “I wouldn’t exactly call it luck.”

  “Were you able to earn enough money to help your family?”

  “That would take a mountain of money.”

  “Why is that?” He seemed genuinely interested.

  “My father needs surgery and I don’t think I could ever make enough nickels off of the shell game to pay for a new heart.”

  The man stopped in his tracks. “What’s wrong with his heart?”

  M.K. scratched her head. “His heart is wearing out. But we’re praying for a miracle.”

  The man rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “I don’t believe in miracles.”

  How sad! M.K. counted on miracles. Every day. She watched the man in the panama hat observe the bird until Fern shouted at her to get back to the driveway and direct cars. A traffic jam had formed at the top of the rise.

  Later that afternoon, Uncle Hank stormed into the kitchen. “WHEN IS THAT BIRD GONNA HIT THE ROAD?”

  Fern was giving a serious beating to egg whites in a metal bowl. Without looking up, she asked, �
��What’s eating you?”

  “MENNO SAYS HE’S TOO BUSY TO GO TURKEY HUNTING WITH ME! And I spotted a flock just this morning. RIPE FOR THE PICKING!” Uncle Hank pulled off his straw hat and tossed it on a bench, then pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and plopped into it. “I need his keen vision.”

  “Maybe Fern would like to go with you,” M.K. added, trying to sound helpful. She looked at Uncle Hank with wide and innocent eyes. The truth was, she was still mad at Fern for making her return money to paying bird visitors. It was a substantial amount of money. And folks didn’t bat an eye when she pointed out the cardboard sign listing admission prices: $5 per adult, $2 for children under 12. “She’s always telling me she’s got eyes on the back of her head.”

  Uncle Hank eyed Fern with his good eye.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Amos said, sitting in a chair in the far corner of the room with his feet raised. “She doesn’t miss a thing.”

  Fern continued to beat the egg whites.

  Uncle Hank gave that some serious thought. Then he slammed his palms on the tabletop. “Fine! We’ll leave at dawn.” He jumped up from the table and grabbed his hat. He pointed a finger at Fern. “AND DON’T BE LATE!”

  Fern examined the egg whites, now stiff and in peaks, and set down the bowl. “Well, then, Mary Kate, I hope you don’t mind getting up extra early to fix breakfast, seeing as how I’ll be out chasing turkeys in the morning.” She arched an eyebrow in M.K.’s direction. “And I’ll expect this kitchen to be spotless when I return.”

  M.K. exchanged a look with her father.

  He shrugged his shoulders in a “Don’t-look-at-me. You-started-it” way. “Maybe next time you have a brainstorm, you could run it by me first,” he said.

  Amos was paying bills at his desk when he heard a commotion on the back porch, then the kitchen door squeak open and shut with a bang. He really should oil that hinge. He leaned back in his chair and saw Fern scolding Uncle Hank.

  “Hank Lapp, you’re mucking up my perfectly good clean floors with those rubber boots of yours! Look at the tracks you’re leaving! Now I’ll have to get down on my hands and knees with a Brillo pad to get them off the linoleum.”

  Something seemed odd to Amos. Getting chewed out by Fern was nothing new to any of them, but he could tell her heart wasn’t in the scolding today.

  Uncle Hank saw Amos and stomped straight into the living room, hands perched on his hips, rubber boots still on. “You and your big ideas! I will never take that woman shooting with me ever again!”

  “That bad, eh?” Amos said, smiling.

  “Fern did everything wrong, got nothing right! She chattered too much, disturbed the undergrowth, loaded the wrong gauge shot in the gun, used the wrong luring whistles.”

  Fern came into the room with a glass of water and a handful of pills for Amos. “Tell him,” she said primly. “Tell him what happened.”

  Uncle Hank glared at her. “Worst of all,” he bellowed, “SHE SHOT MORE TURKEYS THAN ME!”

  A broad grin spread over Fern’s face. “The truth is too much for some people and too little for others.” Though she didn’t gloat, she did look satisfied as she swiveled on her heels and returned to the kitchen.

  Friday began as a mild, sunny day. Julia was pleased to see her father downstairs at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper. She knew this was Fern’s doing. Every day, Fern insisted that Amos get out of bed, get dressed, join his family, and do something physical to stay active. No excuses.

  This morning, she needed to talk to her father privately and waited until the house was empty. As Julia sat in the chair across from him, he patted her hand with his. He had such big hands. Now they looked frail. When had his skin taken on such a grayish tint? Had she grown accustomed to his frailty? “Menno thinks he’s fallen in love with Annie. He wants to marry her.”

  Last evening, as Julia was turning off the lamp in the kitchen, Menno had come downstairs and announced to her, “Me and Annie are getting married.”

  “Oh, Menno, for heaven’s sake,” Julia had said, pushed to the limit of her patience. “How can you get married? You don’t know the first thing about marriage, either one of you.”

  “We know,” Menno had said. “We know about marriage.”

  Julia had hardly slept last night, she was so bothered by Menno’s news.

  Amos studied the coffee mug in his hand as if it could portend the future. “I always had a feeling,” he said, thoughtful and far-off. “Like this was bound to happen, one day or another. And now it has.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you have to say about the matter?”

  He leaned back in the chair. “They’re young, Julia. It’ll fizzle out.”

  Julia was not sure, though. She had a funny feeling from the start about Menno’s relationship with Annie. “What if it doesn’t?” Julia said. “What if it’s a huge mistake?”

  Amos lifted one bushy eyebrow. “Folks make mistakes all of the time, Julia. And God has a way of bringing good out of those mistakes.” He dropped his chin to his chest. “We need to leave our Menno in God’s hands.”

  Julia rubbed her face with her hands. “I know you’re right. I wish I could talk to Rome about this. He might have an idea.”

  “You can.”

  “I can’t. He hasn’t come around in weeks.”

  Amos pointed a thumb toward the window. “He’s right outside.”

  “Paul?” She hurried to the window, peered out, and turned back to her father. “That’s Rome.”

  “That’s who you said. You wanted to talk to Rome about Menno.”

  “No. I said Paul.”

  “My heart may be giving me trouble, but my hearing is just fine. You said Rome.”

  “I meant Paul.”

  “You said Rome and I think you meant Rome.”

  Julia shook her head and left the room, exasperated.

  On Sunday evening, Paul went to a singing at Rose Hill Farm, Lizzie’s home. He had been looking forward to it all week, until the moment when Rome Troyer pulled up in a buggy with Julia. When Paul saw Rome help Julia down from the buggy, he set his jaw and looked away. But a moment later his gaze had gone back to studying Rome and Julia. He felt something like fear roil up sour in his belly. Why? Paul was the one who kept holding Julia at arm’s length. He should be relieved that someone else was courting Julia. And in a way, he was. But what bothered him was that person happened to be Roman Troyer.

  It was the way Rome had looked at Julia. Not that snagging a look at Julia—at most of the girls—was unusual for the young men. It was part of every singing. As the girls arrived, the boys gathered in small clumps and watched them. Tonight, as Julia walked from the buggy to the stone farmhouse, every fellow present had stopped talking, stopped moving. Why, even the buggy horses stilled. Paul had heard the fellow next to him, Isaac Yoder, ease his breath out in a slow, slow whistle.

  “She’s mine,” Paul shot back, surprising even himself with the force of his protest, so that of course he flushed.

  Isaac turned his head slowly away from watching Julia gracefully climb the steps of the farmhouse. “Oh? Does Rome Troyer know she’s yours?”

  Paul looked at Isaac sharply, and Isaac nudged him in the ribs to make him smile. Then, as if of one accord, their gazes had been pulled back to Julia, standing on the porch, laughing at something Rome had said.

  Paul felt a surge of jealousy. Julia was his.

  This evening wasn’t going at all the way Julia had planned. She agreed to go to the singing with Rome with hopes that Paul might notice. She had lingered a little extra long out on the porch, laughed a little extra loud at something funny Rome had said. She hoped to be heading home tonight in Paul’s courting buggy, but her plans went awry. Paul seemed to have vanished, and just as Julia started to look for him, suddenly she was being ushered to the buggy by Rome.

  “Paul Fisher is a fool,” Rome whispered to her as he helped her into the buggy. A lump rose in Julia’s throat and emotion welled behi
nd her eyes. He couldn’t have imagined how much she needed to hear that right now.

  “Thanks.” She swallowed hard, trying to get herself under control. An emotional moment with Roman Troyer wasn’t anywhere in her plans for this evening.

  As the horse jerked forward, Julia decided to steer the conversation away from anything too personal and on to something safer. She spilled out her worries about Menno and Annie to Rome. “Menno simply cannot live by himself, not even for a day. If a fire broke out, he would be frightened and wouldn’t know what to do.”

  Rome was quiet for a moment. “He wouldn’t be alone. He would be with Annie.”

  “He could never be responsible for another human being.”

  “Who are you to say?”

  Embarrassment warmed Julia’s neck and cheeks. She was the one who usually had the answers, not the one needing advice. Maybe Rome and her father were right. Maybe Menno and Annie would be okay, more or less, together. Menno seemed not to worry very much about things, but rather to accept the world as a fascinating place where anything might happen. Why did she have to spoil his dream, his life, with troubles about the future?

  Julia wasn’t entirely persuaded, but she felt calmer now. Talking to Rome had that effect, she noticed; his presence felt so normal, so reassuring and right. Such kind thoughts about Rome surprised her. An image in her mind shifted, like a reflection in a pond turning wavy after she tossed in a stone. As the ripples slowed and stilled, a new picture emerged: Rome Troyer—sincere, steady, even wise. Not at all the arrogant oaf she had made him out to be. He turned to her suddenly, as if he could read her thoughts. His gaze met hers and held it. A soft breeze tickled loose hairs on the back of Julia’s neck. For just a moment, she imagined herself as Rome’s Julia.