An Amish Arrangement

by Jo Ann Brown

  “Who cares about stupid Korea?” muttered the boy. His voice held the hint of an accent.

  “And I’m Jeremiah Stoltzfus.” He offered his hand to the boy as if Parker were a grown man.

  For a second, the kind’s indifference cracked. He eyed Jeremiah up and down. He seemed to gather his defenses around himself and scorned Jeremiah’s hand. “Why are you wearing a clown hat?”

  Because of the kind’s accent, Jeremiah thought he said crown hat. He realized his mistake when Mercy replied.

  “Jeremiah isn’t a clown. He’s Amish. Amish men wear black hats like that in the winter, Parker.”

  “My name isn’t Parker.”

  Whitney’s voice took on a stern edge. “We’ve talked about that, and you agreed, for now, you’re going to stick with Parker.”

  The kind subsided, but crossed his arms over his chest and stood with his chin raised in defiance.

  If the boy wanted another name, Jeremiah knew what it should be. Trouble. The boy was going to be trouble. Jeremiah hoped Mercy was prepared.

  He wasn’t sure he was.

  * * *

  Mercy was so proud of her daughter. Despite Parker’s disdain for everything Sunni said and how often he called her silly or stupid, the little girl persisted. No doubt, Sunni remembered her own rough transition into what became her permanent family. Mercy certainly recalled her own, and she knew exactly how Parker was feeling.

  Unwanted. Worthless. Determined to show the world he wasn’t either.

  “This is for you.” Sunni placed a bright blue teddy bear in Parker’s hand. Her smile wavered when he didn’t say anything. “It’s nice to have a special friend when you’re somewhere new. Blueberry has been a good friend to me, and I hope he’ll be a good friend to you.”

  Mercy didn’t catch what Parker replied under his breath. She guessed she’d be better off not knowing.

  Parker tossed the bear on the bed and then picked up his suitcase. It nearly knocked him off his feet. Jeremiah slipped a surreptitious hand under one side to help guide it onto the bed. Parker shook his head when Whitney said it was time to go downstairs, but came along reluctantly upon the social worker’s insistence.

  Whitney stayed for several hours, then got ready to leave to allow the family to begin to adjust to each other.

  When Mercy started to make supper, she asked Jeremiah if he’d like to stay.

  He heard her nervous tone, and he agreed. With two kinder, including one who protested over anything anyone said to him, she could use another adult there.

  “I’ll set the table,” he said as she took hamburger and potatoes out of the refrigerator. “And keep the kids away from the stove.”

  “They’re upstairs. Sunni knows if she wants fries, she needs to stay away while I cook them.”

  “She’s a known quantity. The other one isn’t.” He paused by the table. “Where do you want these papers Whitney left with you?”

  “Would you mind putting them on the desk?”

  “Be glad to.” He began to gather them up. His eyes widened as he noticed the name on several of them. Mercedes R. Bamberger.

  “Is your name really Mercedes?” he asked. “Like the fancy car?”

  “Jeff and Pat have a Mercedes,” said Parker, puffing out his chest and striding into the kitchen as if he owned the place. Jeremiah knew Jeff and Pat were the couple who were supposed to have adopted the boy. “Do you have one?”

  “No, I’ve got that dented Ford out there.” Mercy shot Jeremiah a glance, and he stepped between the boy and the stove.

  The boy looked at Jeremiah, who said, “No car for me. But I’ve got a horse named Hero and a buggy.”

  Rolling his eyes, Parker opened cabinet doors and peered inside.

  “So your name is really Mercedes?” Jeremiah asked.

  She plucked the page out of his hand. “Yes, my name is Mercedes. It’s Spanish for mercies, and it’s the name I was given when I was born. The Bambergers asked if they could call me Mercy. I agreed, because I was getting a new life, so why not a new name?” She smiled coolly. “Especially when they didn’t pronounce it as Abuelita did.”

  “I always wanted a shorter name like my brothers have. I liked my daed’s name. Paul. Nice and simple.” He rubbed his chin. “Mamm always said I should emulate the prophet Jeremiah and stand up and speak of the Lord.”

  “I didn’t think the Amish evangelize.”

  “We don’t. Or I should say, most of us don’t. She meant I should proclaim God is gut.”

  “This place is ugly,” Parker announced from the far corner of the kitchen.

  “If you think it’s ugly now,” she said as she began cutting the potatoes into short lengths, “you should have seen it when I moved in here.”

  Mercy didn’t smile when she saw the child’s shock. He’d expected to annoy her with another of his insults, but she’d been a foster kid. She knew the games and the rules. Dislike everything. Push and push to see how much you could get away with.

  And Parker had been yanked out of the familiar world he’d known and brought across the Pacific to a strange culture. The family that was supposed to be his forever had failed him, leaving him to be tossed into the system. Now he found himself in a plain home. That was enough to make the boy’s head spin...and her heart ache.

  “Can we watch TV?” the boy asked.

  “We don’t have one.” She scraped more potatoes, figuring she’d need more than twice as many as she used when she made French fries for her and Sunni. A hardworking man and a growing boy had hearty appetites.

  “How do you play video games if you don’t have a TV?” His eyes widened. “Do you have a handheld?”

  “No.”

  “Then you play on the computer.”

  Mercy shook her head, but Sunni, who came into the kitchen, replied, “We don’t have a computer or whatever a handheld is.”

  Parker stared at them as if they’d crawled out of a woodchuck hole and announced they’d been hibernating. “What do you do?”

  “Read and color,” Sunni said.

  “Take care of the animals and pray,” Jeremiah added.

  “Teach Sunni and cook.” Mercy motioned to the stove.

  “Build a chicken coop.” Sunni giggled and glanced at Jeremiah.

  “Drive the buggy,” he said with a laugh, “and teach Mercy how to drive the sleigh.”

  Before Mercy could think of something to add to the list, Parker threw his short arms up in the air, grumbled something and stamped away. She heard his footsteps on the stairs and overhead. She looked from the heating oil to the ceiling.

  “What is it?” asked Jeremiah.

  “Could you do me a favor? There’s the door by Parker’s room that leads into the section of the house with weak floors. I meant to lock it before he arrived.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “Be careful.”

  His reddish brows rose. “By that, I assume the door has to be locked from the bad side.”

  “Yes.” She flashed him a sympathetic smile. “I’ve looked for the key, but I haven’t found it.” Among other things, like my grandfather’s will, she wanted to say, but kept that to herself. She wasn’t comfortable with Jeremiah knowing she hadn’t given up the search. “Just turn the latch on the dead bolt.” As he turned to go, she repeated, “Be careful.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I’m sure you always do.”

  He paused and looked at her. The kitchen seemed to telescope, the distance between them vanishing. Everything vanished, except them. A connection, invisible and powerful, matched every breath she took to his.

  She wasn’t sure how long they would have stood—frozen inside a splendid moment in time—if the hot oil on the stove hadn’t snapped. She turned to the stove, and Jeremiah rushed away.

  Steadyi
ng her breath and her heart that seemed to be beating at fast-forward, she tried to focus on cutting the fries. She patted the potatoes dry, because she didn’t want the oil to splatter.

  When she heard footsteps behind her, she saw her daughter standing in the doorway but not in the kitchen.

  Sunni clamped her arms over her narrow chest. “He says he’s not coming down for dinner.”

  Mercy didn’t need to ask who he was. “Did you ask him nice?”

  “Of course.” Her daughter seemed insulted at the question. “But he won’t open his door.”

  “Did he tell you why?” Infecting Sunni with Mercy’s worries that the boy might try to run away would make the situation more tense.

  “No! He said bad words.”

  Mercy turned off the burner and sent up a quick prayer of thanks the boy was still in the house. Holding out her hand, she said, “Come with me.”

  She didn’t want Sunni to get more upset, but she wouldn’t leave her daughter in the kitchen with the hot oil on the stove. When she heard Jeremiah on the front stairs, she asked him to keep an eye on the stove. He nodded, though curiosity burned in his eyes. Again, she felt the pull of the unseen contact between them. She broke it, knowing she had to find out why Parker was refusing to come and have his supper.

  He must be hungry. Whitney said she’d offered to stop to get burgers, but the boy had refused. Climbing the stairs, she went to the room between Sunni’s and Grandpa Rudy’s.

  “Parker?”

  “That’s not my name!” came back a snarl.

  “All right, whatever your name is.” Mercy kept her voice even. “It’s time for supper.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Yes, you are. Have you ever had French fries before?”

  “Of course!” A hint of vacillation sifted into his retort.

  “Homemade ones?”

  For several seconds there was no answer. The door opened slowly, enough for Parker to slip through.

  As he started to close it behind him, Mercy put out her hand and kept the door from shutting. He glared at her, and she met it without comment. Finally, he lowered his eyes and stepped aside.

  She pushed open the door and gasped.

  The room looked as if it’d been ransacked. The drawers were pulled from the dresser. The bed had been torn apart, and the pictures on the wall—at least the ones Parker could reach—were ripped down and tossed in a corner.

  Sunni gave a soft cry of dismay and picked up the blue teddy bear she’d given Parker. Tears filled her eyes when she touched the stuffing peeking out of where the bear’s ears had been.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “It’s a stupid bear, and you’re stupid for liking it. Only a cripple would like something like a stupid bear.” Parker crossed his arms and raised his chin, daring them to try to make him apologize.

  It was at that point Mercy knew this placement was going to be harder than she’d guessed.

  A lot harder.

  * * *

  Jeremiah had come up the stairs after making sure nothing would burn on the stove. He didn’t hesitate to step into the room as Sunni ran and threw herself in Mercy’s arms. He turned to the boy, who regarded them with contempt. Parker also had, Jeremiah noticed, steeled himself as if he expected to be punished harshly for what he’d done and said.

  It was gut the kind understood he shouldn’t have destroyed the room and the gifts Mercy and Sunni had given him. Teaching the boy to respect those who wanted to help him would be easier if Parker knew the difference between right and wrong.

  Mercy started to step forward, but Jeremiah put his hand on her arm. Warmth exploded from her skin to his. For a split second, he wanted to step out into the hall with her and forget the angry boy and the hurt little girl. Just for a moment. A single moment while he gazed into Mercy’s pretty eyes. If he bent forward, would she shy away from his lips?

  Knowing he was being imprudent, especially when the kinder needed them, he said in a near whisper, “Let me, Mercy.”

  “Jeremiah, this isn’t your problem.” Her voice was as hushed as his while Parker’s gaze moved from one of them to the other as if trying to read their lips.

  “I know, but I can take him off your hands while you clean up this mess.”

  “He should help, so—”

  “Look at him.” He cut his eyes to the boy. “Everything about him says he’s waiting for a fight or to be punished.”

  “I don’t want to fight with him. I know he’s scared.”

  “So let me give him something to take his mind off his fears.”

  For a moment, Jeremiah thought Mercy wouldn’t trust him. She glanced between the boy and him.

  “I’m not going to take him out behind the woodshed,” he said quietly. “That wouldn’t help anything.”

  “I know.”

  “Mercy, let me help. Can you hold dinner for about an hour?”

  Indecision raced across her face, but then she nodded.

  Thrilled by her trust in him, Jeremiah made sure his face remained stern as he turned to the boy. “Come with me.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I didn’t ask if you wanted to. I asked you to come with me.” He kept his voice steady, wondering if Daed had struggled, as Jeremiah was now, when he’d needed to punish one of them.

  Maybe he shouldn’t have volunteered to help. He didn’t know a lot about kids, other than when he spent time with his nieces and nephews. But there wasn’t time for second thoughts. He’d offered, and the boy needed to learn actions had consequences, whether gut or bad.

  Jeremiah herded the boy down the stairs. He thought Parker would argue again when told to put on his coat, hat and mittens along with his boots. The boy was reluctant but he complied and rushed out the door when Jeremiah opened it.

  “Whoa, there.” Jeremiah caught Parker by the hood on his coat as the kind started to jump into a snowbank. “If you get wet, you’ll be cold by the time we finish the chores.”

  “Chores? What are chores?”

  Surprised a nine-year-old didn’t know the term, Jeremiah held the coat as Parker strained against him. “Chores are what we do to earn our keep here.”

  “The county is paying for me.”

  “And how long do you think they’ll do that? A man can’t depend on someone else to pay his way. Don’t you want a gut and exciting job when you grow up?”

  The boy stopped trying to pull away. Frowning, Parker said, “Sure.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Be an astronaut or a fireman or maybe a policeman.”

  Jeremiah ignored his yearning to grin. “Those are important jobs, and they have one thing in common. They will require you to work hard to learn everything you need to know to do the job. Ever think of being a cowboy?”

  “Yeah,” the boy drawled, clearly suspicious.

  “Here’s your chance.”

  “Huh?”

  Pretending he hadn’t heard Parker’s question, Jeremiah kept a hand on the boy’s shoulder as they walked toward the barn. Jeremiah acted as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but kept snatching glances at the kind’s face when they entered the barn where the cows waited to be milked.

  “It smells in here,” the boy said.

  “It does, doesn’t it?” He saw Parker’s shock that Jeremiah wasn’t insulted by his blunt words. “But give it a chance. Once you get used to the smell, it’s kind of a nice stink.”

  “You’re crazy!”

  Jeremiah smiled. The sooner the boy learned he couldn’t get a rise out of Jeremiah, the sooner Parker might start listening to him. Really listening.

  “Okay,” Jeremiah said, trying to sound more certain than he felt, “I’m going to milk the cows, and you’re going to clean up.” He pointed at the gutter behind the cows and then ha
nded the boy a short-handled shovel. “Pick it up and put it on that pile over there.” He pointed toward a stained spot on the concrete floor near the door leading into the barnyard. “It can stay there for tonight. We’ll move it outside tomorrow when it’s warmer.”

  “You want me to shovel that—?”

  “Manure? Ja, I do.”

  “That’s child abuse.”

  “Not even close.” He grinned at the boy. “Once I know you can handle that, I’ll let you help me milk the cows.”

  “I don’t want to milk old, stinky cows.”

  “Well, that’s gut, because these cows are neither old nor stinky.”

  Again the kind stared at him as if Parker feared Jeremiah had lost his mind.

  “B-b-but...” The boy sputtered on the single word.

  “You said you wanted to be a cowboy, ain’t so?”

  “I did, but cowboys ride horses.”

  “Which need to be cleaned up after, too.”

  “Really?”

  “Ja, really.” Smiling, Jeremiah said, “You’d better get started.”

  He left the boy staring at the shovel and went to get the milking equipment out of the storage room. When he returned, Parker was poking at the gutters behind the cows. Jeremiah didn’t glance at him when he heard a clang as Parker started to work.

  The battle wasn’t over, but Parker was willing to listen to him. Maybe Jeremiah had helped Mercy tonight. He hoped so. It felt astounding, he realized, to be on the same side for once. He prayed it wouldn’t be the one and only time.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunni was paging through a picture book in the living room the following week, so Mercy kept Parker in the kitchen while she washed the dinner dishes. He complained about not having TV, and he couldn’t seem to find anything to do. Sleet tapped at the window, and she could scarcely make out the shape of the barn on the far side of the yard.

  “Can you see where Jeremiah is?” asked Parker as he set a cup of cocoa on the table.

  Mercy wasn’t sure what had happened in the barn the night of Parker’s arrival, but whatever Jeremiah had said or done had made a huge impression on the boy. At the same time Parker looked for any chance to spend time with Jeremiah, he resisted every request she spoke, and he treated Sunni badly, making nasty comments to her over and over or stepping into her way when she was trying to navigate the stairs.