The Calling

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  It seemed no time at all before they had arrived at the Grange Hall, the kitchen was unlocked and the groceries were stacked on the countertop. Geena seemed to know how to help without being asked. She walked right into the kitchen and pulled open the dishwasher. It was full of clean dishes, so she put them away, opening cupboard doors and quickly getting familiar with the layout of the kitchen. In no time at all, soup was simmering on the stove, the tables were set, bread and butter were on the tables, and the down-and-outers were lining up outside.

  Bethany didn’t mind making meals for the down-and-outers. She was getting to know each one and understand why they were where they were; each one had a story. She liked keeping busy and she loved to cook, but her pleasure dissipated when the wayward girls from the Group Home arrived. Those girls made her uncomfortable, especially that red-haired girl.

  When the red-haired girl walked inside, she looked all around the room like she owned the place, then swaggered over to a table. The other girls followed behind her and sat around her. The red-haired girl stared at Bethany without friendliness. She met that girl’s dark eyes, standing her ground. Inside, though, Bethany felt a chill run up her spine.

  Geena walked right up to the wayward girls’ table and introduced herself. Once, Bethany even heard her laughing—Geena had a very distinctive low-sounding laugh—and she wondered what was so funny. The red-haired girl, she noticed, acted like she didn’t care if Geena was there or not.

  That was the thing about those girls. None of them seemed to care.

  Mid-afternoon, after the kitchen was cleaned up, the women started back down the road that led to the Sisters’ House with empty wagons. As they passed the vacant lot between the Group Home and the Grange, Bethany looked at it more carefully. Trash and tumbleweeds blew into the lot, catching on junk of various kinds—discarded tires, plastic grocery bags, sawed-off tree limbs, a couch where two girls sat smoking . . . something small that didn’t look like a cigarette. One of those girls was that red-haired girl.

  “I just have to say,” Bethany said, “that lot is an eyesore and I think something should be done about it. Who owns it, anyway?”

  “I think it belongs to the Grange Hall,” Sylvia said.

  Fannie raised her eyebrows. “Bethany, what would you like to be done with the lot?”

  “I don’t know,” Bethany said. “I haven’t thought about that. I wish those girls had something to do besides just sit around and stare at people.”

  Lena nodded. “They’re bored.”

  “Sylvia, didn’t you say there was a housemother at the Group Home? Can’t she make those girls do something?”

  “Mrs. Green? She does her best but she’s old and tired.”

  Bethany had seen Mrs. Green. She was at least thirty years younger than the sisters. Maybe even younger.

  “When school starts in the fall, the girls will be busy during the day,” Fannie said.

  Bethany glanced at the girls on the abandoned couch. “Seems like they could be gardening on that lot or mowing grass or washing windows at the house. Something.”

  Geena stopped for a moment to look it over. “Maybe the yard could be turned into—a big garden! Or better still, lots of little garden plots. It gets plenty of daylight, all day long.” She turned to Sylvia. “Wouldn’t that be something? A community garden.”

  “It would indeed.” Sylvia inclined her head, a quizzical expression on her brow. “Do you think it’s possible?”

  Geena turned to Bethany. “I’m a city girl. What would it take?”

  “I guess we’d have to build raised beds and bring in topsoil. That dirt is no good.”

  Sylvia nodded. “I think that’s a splendid idea, Bethany. You need a project and it needs you.”

  Bethany stopped. “Wait a minute. I didn’t mean we as in me. I meant it in the generic sense.”

  Sylvia smiled. “‘We’ doesn’t always mean somebody else.”

  Oh no. Bethany did not need another project. Cleaning out the Sisters’ House was more than enough for anyone—and it was not a job for the faint of heart.

  “Imagine that!” Fannie said, clasping her hands in delight. “Bethany and the lady preacher want to start a community garden! Plots for each family in need. Maybe a few for the Group Home. That would keep those girls busy and teach them skills too! It’s a wonderful idea.”

  Me? How did one tiny suggestion get carried away? “It’s already the end of June,” Bethany pointed out. “Too late for planting.” The Eagle Hill garden had been planted weeks ago. Same with Naomi’s. Strawberries had already come and gone.

  “No—not necessarily,” Sylvia said. “Amos Lapp has plants in his greenhouse, year-round. He could help us by providing starts. Tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, even corn. And then there’s fall planting too—swiss chard and spinach and lettuce and carrots. All kinds of things could get in the ground before the first frost hits in October.”

  Bethany thought of the vacant lot, the hostile girls, and then Sylvia’s description of the gardens. In that instant, she caught the vision. She saw the garden in full summer, corn tasseling, pumpkins sprawling, those bored-looking girls plucking tomatoes they’d grown themselves.

  She realized she hadn’t thought about Jake Hertzler or her brother Tobe or her mother or father or any other unsolved problem for at least an hour, maybe more. Maybe she did need a project. She turned to Sylvia. “We’ll look into it.”

  Geena woke before dawn and couldn’t go back to sleep. Too much was swirling through her mind. She tiptoed to the kitchen to warm some milk for hot chocolate. The milk in the pan frothed and Geena poured it into a chocolate powder she had spooned into the bottom of the mug. She stirred it and took the mug to the sofa, the one by the window, where the soft morning light was just starting to fill the room. Bethany had showed her how to light the stove, but she wasn’t quite sure she could manage lighting a kerosene lamp without supervision. She was sure she’d blow up this Amish farmhouse.

  Her Bible was in her other hand. Her comfort, her solace. It was leather-bound and well loved, a gift from her father when she graduated from seminary. Its binding had broken and its pages thinned to onionskin. She had always felt that if a fire swept through her belongings, this is the one thing she would grab. Everything else could go, but not this Bible.

  Geena burrowed deep in the couch and gently opened the Bible to the center. Ah. There. The book of Psalms. They were like old friends, the Psalms, each with a word to address her needs—some for wisdom, some for thanksgiving, some for sorrow. This morning, she sought guidance and direction. She’d been at the Inn at Eagle Hill for eight days now. Rose told her there had been another reservation cancellation and she could stay on through the weekend. She wanted to. But she also knew she had to start facing the inevitable: what to do next.

  Psalm 27. She read aloud, softly. “Hear my voice when I call, LORD; be merciful to me and answer me. . . . Do not hide your face from me, do not turn your servant away in anger; you have been my helper.”

  How audacious. How wonderful! To think David spoke to God in such a familiar way and yet God called David a man after his own heart. The wonder and the mystery of a loving, holy God.

  Her finger scrolled down to a verse she had underlined. Teach me your way, LORD; lead me in a straight path because of my oppressors.

  Who were her oppressors?

  Fear. Insecurity. Self-doubt. Anxiety about her future.

  Her eyes traveled to the end of the psalm. Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD.

  Geena leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Wait for the LORD. The words swirled around her mind, reminding her, bringing comfort and peace. Surely the God who set the stars in the sky would let her know when and where her next church would be.

  Wait for the LORD.

  Of course. She would wait.

  It was a good thing Edith Fisher slept like a hibernating bear. It gave Jimmy time to sneak out of the house early in the morning and sn
eak back in late at night. He took his meals at Galen’s. He was doing his very best to avoid any confrontation or conflict with his mother, because any interaction with her meant a healthy dose of both. Few would guess that Jimmy disliked conflict, but he did. He never minded stirring things up, but he didn’t like to stick around long enough for the aftermath.

  Long ago, he had learned that the best way to get along with his mother was to go along with her. At least on the surface. Under the surface, he quietly went about his own business. On this morning, he was tiptoeing down the stairs in his stocking feet when his mother met him at the base of the stairwell, arms akimbo.

  “Have you spoken to Galen King yet?”

  He stiffened. “About what?”

  “About quitting that silly horse business and managing these chickens, full-time. That’s what. I’ve been talking about nothing else for weeks.”

  And that was the truth. His mother had a way of having one-sided conversations and Jimmy was used to being on the quiet end.

  “Now, Mom, we’ve been over all this. The chickens don’t need full-time management.”

  “Maybe not right now, but that cornfield is going to need cultivating in another month or so. Harvesting a month after that. And if it doesn’t get harvested, then it doesn’t get ground for meal and then my chickens don’t get fed. And Fisher Hatchery goes—” her arms shot up to the ceiling—“belly up.”

  “Now, now, that’s a little dramatic. Don’t you think I’ve been working on a plan? But you see, there’s only so many hours in a day. I’m working at Galen’s, I’m helping Naomi—” He said that to try to derail his mother’s line of thinking and it usually worked. Since she had returned to Stoney Ridge, her favorite topic was the courting of Naomi King.

  She cleared her throat, puffing out her cheeks. “Mostly, I hear you’re spending time fluttering around Bethany Schrock.”

  Where did she hear that? It was true, but where had she heard it?

  “That’s another thing I wanted to talk to you about. Jimmy, you’ve always been too softhearted for your own good.”

  He sidled around her to get to the bench by the door. “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re taking pity on those Schrocks.”

  He sat down and reached for a boot. First one, then the other. “Now why would I be taking pity on them?”

  “Because of all the trouble that family has caused folks. Poor innocent people.”

  “The women didn’t have anything to do with Schrock Investments,” he said emphatically. “That had everything to do with Dean Schrock and his son Tobe and that no-good employee of theirs, Jake Hertzler.”

  “How do you know that? How do you know Rose and Bethany weren’t in on it?”

  He couldn’t explain it to his mother, but some things you just knew.

  “Apples don’t fall far from the tree.”

  “Meaning . . .”

  “I’ve never said anything about your flittering around other girls—”

  It was too early in the morning for this kind of a conversation. “Well, then, let’s just leave well enough alone, all right?”

  “—but this time I am stepping in. I’ll say it plainly. I don’t want you cozying up with Bethany Schrock.”

  Jimmy bristled like a cat in a lightning storm. “What have you got against Bethany? And don’t try to tell me it’s about Schrock Investments. You’ve got something in your craw about her.”

  “I want someone better for you, that’s all. What’s so terrible about that?” Her voice was controlled and quiet, but there was an edge of steel in it, the way it got when people tried to talk her down on the price of her eggs.

  “I think I’m old enough to make those decisions for myself,” he said. “Decisions like becoming a horse trainer.”

  “Your father—God rest his soul—started this chicken and egg business to pass on to you boys. Paul left. Now it’s all up to you. You’re all I’ve got. I’m doing it all alone.”

  Jimmy sighed. “I know,” he said, feeling guilty for snapping at her. His mother really did mean well, but she was so . . . insistent. He softened his tone. “I do agree with you, Mom. About the chickens needing someone part-time.”

  He stilled, an idea taking shape. In fact . . . I have just the person in mind! He jumped off the bench and grabbed his straw hat off the wall peg. Windmill Farm wasn’t far from the Fishers’ farm, but it would take at least an hour to get Hank Lapp woken up, talked into showering, shaved, changed into fresh, clean clothes, and over to the Fisher farm. “I’ll be back soon with our new part-time employee.”

  He flew out of the house and into the barn to hitch the horse to the buggy before his mother could object. Fifteen minutes later, he was rapping on Hank’s garage apartment above the buggy shop at Windmill Farm. “Open up, Hank! It’s Jimmy. Come on, wake up!” He kept knocking until the door finally opened.

  Hank squinted at Jimmy with his good eye. “WHERE’S THE DADGUM FIRE?!”

  Jimmy winced—both at the loud sound of Hank’s voice and his appearance. The sight of Hank Lapp, first thing in the morning, was not for the squeamish. “Hank, my mother asked for your help.”

  Hank straightened hopefully, then eyed Jimmy suspiciously. “I find that a little hard to swallow. She was awful mad at me when she last spurned me. Then she up and married that other fellow. Then she returned, widowfied, and looked at me like it was all my fault.”

  “Well, that’s water under the bridge. That temporary husband of hers is pushing up daisies on his own accord. A lot has happened since he up and died—no one’s blaming you. Paul moved and left me with Mom . . . I mean, left the chicken business to Mom to run. She needs your help, I tell you. Wants to hire you part-time.” He clapped his hands twice. “Now. Pronto. Lickety-split.”

  Hank’s good eye lit up. But there were two things in Stoney Ridge that couldn’t be rushed: the weather and Hank Lapp. He took his sweet time showering, singing at the top of his lungs—so loud it could break glass. While he showered, Jimmy hunted around the garage apartment for a fresh set of clothes. By the time Hank was done with the shower, Jimmy had a clean shirt and pants waiting for him. “Come on, Hank. You’re wasting precious time. Galen’s waiting on me.”

  Hank scowled as he wrapped a towel around his privates. “You’ve got me as nervous as a turkey before Thanksgiving. You go on ahead. I’ll get there.”

  “Not a chance. I’m hand delivering you.”

  Another hour and a half later, Jimmy pulled the buggy into the driveway of the Fisher farm. He jumped out and called to his mother to come outside. “I brought your part-time help, Mom. Someone who has a way with chickens and is eager to please.”

  Edith came out of the house, wiping her hands on her apron, and stopped short when she saw someone come around the other side of the buggy. Hank took off his hat, held it against his chest, and walked over to Edith.

  Their eyes met.

  6

  On Wednesday, Bethany planned to head to the Sisters’ House early in the morning even though they didn’t expect her. She packed up the cookies and the buttermilk and most of what else they had left in the refrigerator, telling Mim things were going bad so fast in this heat that giving them to the soup kitchen would save her from having to throw them out later.

  She didn’t want anyone to think she’d gone soft.

  After thinking it over, Bethany had decided to help the sisters serve lunch to the down-and-outers of Stoney Ridge on a weekly basis. She liked most of the down-and-outers and looked forward to seeing them—all except those ungrateful girls from the Group Home. And she worried about the sisters, lugging those little red wagons filled with food under the hot sun and working so hard to make a good meal.

  When Mim found out what her plans were for the day, she asked to go along and Bethany agreed. After all, if Bethany could help Mim with the secret of Mrs. Miracle’s true identity, then Mim could help with the soup kitchen. When Bethany picked up the breakfast tray in the guest fla
t, Geena offered to come too. So the three of them, morning sun blazing hot on their backs, headed over to the Sisters’ House.

  The five elderly sisters were delighted to see them walk up the front steps. They happily passed off the wagon handles to Bethany and Mim, and the eight of them started up the road to the Grange Hall.

  Within the hour, Bethany and Mim sliced and diced big yellow onions on the countertop of the kitchen at the Grange Hall to make a chili soup for lunch. Despite the heat wave, ingredients to make chili soup had been donated by the local Bent N’ Dent, so chili soup it was.

  Bethany was blinking away onion tears when Jimmy Fisher walked in with his dazzling grin. “Why don’t you just admit, Bethany, that I have a powerful effect on you?”

  Slicing an onion in half with a big knife, Bethany gave him a look. “Same effect as a pungent onion.” But she couldn’t help but return his grin. Jimmy’s smile was like the sun breaking through the clouds. “Just what brings you to the Grange Hall on this steamy summer morning?”

  “I waved him in,” Sylvia said, opening a bag of paper napkins. She handed the napkins to Mim to start setting places at the table.

  “I was heading to the hardware store in town to pick up some nails for Galen,” Jimmy said. “We’re fixing a fence that borders Eagle Hill and Galen’s back pasture, on account of a certain goat that seems to have a lack of respect for boundaries.”

  “That goat!” Bethany said. “I wouldn’t mind if he wandered off and never returned.”

  Sylvia walked into the kitchen with something on her mind. “We have a wonderful plan to create a community garden.”

  Jimmy jumped up to sit on the countertop. “What are you talking about?”

  “It was all Bethany’s idea,” Fannie said, coming over to get a box of plastic forks for the table settings.

  Jimmy glanced at Bethany in disbelief. “It was, was it?”

  Of course it was. Bethany tried to ignore his look of shock but a blush warmed her chest and rose to her cheeks.

  “We’re planning on putting the garden over there, in the vacant lot.” Fannie pointed out the window.