The Calling

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  Bethany did a double take—if she wasn’t mistaken, it seemed that Fannie was batting her eyelashes at Jimmy. That boy had a strange and particular effect on women of all ages.

  Jimmy craned his neck to peer out the window. “The lot between the Grange Hall and the Group Home?”

  Sylvia’s dark eyes glittered. “That’s the one.”

  Jimmy jumped off the countertop and crossed the room to look out the window. “It’ll take a ton of work to clean it up. It’s littered with everything from broken glass to old tires.”

  Sylvia smiled. “That’s where you come in, Jimmy.”

  Swift as anything, he looked at her over his shoulder. “Me?”

  “Yes. You. You can gather some of your friends and organize a work frolic to get that lot cleaned up.”

  Jimmy turned back to look out the window, crossing his arms, thinking. “We’re going to need a dumpster for all that trash.”

  “I thought it would be best to have individual raised beds,” Bethany said, still slicing and dicing the onion.

  Jimmy gave Bethany a sideways glance. “You did, did you?” but he sounded as if he still couldn’t believe she had thought this up on her own.

  She gave him her sweetest smile. “You could make those too.”

  “We could probably use the old fence wood that Galen had me tear down last week. A lot of the boards could be reused to make the beds.” He yanked off his hat and worried it in a circle. “Topsoil will have to be brought in. Amos Lapp and Chris Yoder might donate it. I’m sure I can talk Hank Lapp into pitching in.”

  As he spoke and spun his hat, Bethany took Jimmy’s measure. He was a fine-looking young man by anyone’s standard. His forearms showed roped muscle, born of a hundred farm tasks he undertook. Then there was his thick blond hair and mesmerizing blue eyes. Those blue, blue eyes, nearly aquamarine. She shook that thought off and tried to replace it with her diced onion. She scooped the onions up with her big knife and dumped them in the big pot to sauté.

  “So, you’ll help?” Bethany said. “We sure do need it. And you love to be helpful.” Sylvia was pretty crafty, she thought. Having Jimmy be a part of this project would ensure any number of young women from the church would be happy to volunteer in the garden.

  “It’s just dirt, water, and sun,” Fannie said.

  “And paying attention,” Ella pointed out. “Don’t forget that part. That’s the most important part of all.”

  “So, then, you’ll help?” Bethany repeated. Jimmy flashed one of his charming, easy smiles, and she caught her breath. That grin gave him a dangerous boyish look that she didn’t buy for a moment.

  He wiggled his dark eyebrows. “What else you got cooking today?”

  The onions! Bethany hurried to stir the pot before they burned. The onions were completely translucent. “Chili soup.” She scooped up a pile of papery onion skins and dumped them in the trash.

  “Save me a bowl, will you? And I’ll stop by later to sketch out a plan.” He flipped his hat up in the air to land squarely on his head.

  “Jimmy . . .” Bethany swallowed and looked at him doubtfully. “You sure?”

  “Of what?” he asked with a slow grin. “That you need the help or that you’ll have enough chili to spare me a bowl? Answer B is up to you—I love chili, even on a broiling summer day. Answer A is ‘absolutely.’ You’ve bitten off a big job, but . . . I’m willing to give it a try.” Once again, Jimmy wiggled his eyebrows at her, then headed to the door.

  Bethany added ground beef to the big pot and stirred it until it browned. Then she poured in four quarts of beef broth from big cans. She hoped it was beef broth, anyway, because the cans were missing their labels. She added six dented cans of diced tomatoes, stirred, then waited for the liquid to come to a boil. When the soup reached a full, rolling boil, she added four cans of red kidney beans, turned down the heat, added a bay leaf, cumin, chili powder, oregano, salt and pepper, and celery tops.

  “Do you think we might be taking on something too big with that community garden?” Bethany asked Sylvia when she came to check on the chili soup.

  “It is a big project, but it’s a good one. You’re the one who realized those children at the Group Home needed a project.” The chili soup was so thick that Sylvia added some water to the pot. “It will give them a sense of purpose.” She left the kitchen to help Mim and the sisters set the tables.

  Bethany stirred the water vigorously into the chili mixture. “I wish I felt that,” she said to no one in particular. “A sense of purpose would be nice.”

  Geena took the empty cans and dumped them in the recycling box. She turned and inclined her head. “You need only ask God for it, Bethany. He is all about purpose.”

  What would it be like to stumble onto your future and recognize it so clearly? Was it really as simple as opening a door and seeing it before you? Then what? “But then watch out, right? What if I get called to do something like becoming a lady preacher, like you did?” Bethany was joking.

  “Youth pastor,” Geena corrected. “And I love serving these people.” She put a hand on her heart, unaware that Bethany had been teasing her. “Serving gives life meaning, and shape, and purpose. I am honored God would call me to this work. That’s how it works.” She picked up a knife and grabbed a loaf of day-old bread from the Sweet Tooth Bakery.

  Geena sliced the bread and put out sticks of butter on paper plates while Fannie, Ella, Lena, and Mim poured juice into paper cups. Sylvia stood by the door, waiting for the clock to strike twelve to open the door. A line had gathered, out of thin air, right at noon, and in filed an odd assortment of people.

  It was easy for Bethany to ladle up the chili soup for these down-and-outers, feeling something warm like kindness or goodness fill her chest. At least, she did feel a pleasant glow until the teens from the Group Home, filled with bravado, pushing and jabbing each other, came in knots of two and three. Bethany followed Geena’s lead and spoke to each one as she brought out the bowls of chili soup on a tray. “Good afternoon” and “How are you?” and “Would you like chili?” Most didn’t answer and kept their eyes down, but the angry red-haired girl met her eyes, almost in a hostile challenge—Do you see me?

  I’m trying, Bethany thought. But you make it so difficult.

  A few spoke in return. “I don’t like onions,” said one, holding the chili soup bowl up in the air. “Can you take them out?”

  “No,” Bethany said in a no-nonsense tone she had learned from Fannie.

  “You’re new,” said another, a girl with hair dyed as black as coal. She looked Bethany up and down. “You in some kind of trouble?”

  She was a big girl, at least fifteen or sixteen years old, with arms that were tattooed from wrist to shoulder. Bethany couldn’t help but stare. The girl noticed Bethany’s gape, laughed, held out her arms so she could see the drawings. “They’re called sleeve tattoos. They tell the story of my life.”

  Bethany was horrified. Rose called tattoos “permanent evidence of temporary insanity.” What kind of permanent story could fill up both arms when you were only fifteen?

  There were others, too, whom Bethany would not have expected. There were two painfully young mothers with toddlers on their hips, washed and humble, waiting for bowls of chili soup. Sylvia said to hold on, just wait until the end of July if she really wanted a surprise: Families of all shapes and sizes and colors. She said they were especially busy the last week of each month because people on public assistance had run out of food and money and wouldn’t get any more until the first.

  In that moment, Bethany realized she hadn’t thought about her problems all day long. It was happening each time she helped at the sisters’ soup kitchen—she forgot all that troubled her, for a little while anyway. She turned to serve the next girl, a round girl with acne and thick glasses, who smiled at her. This felt . . . good. Really good.

  There were three things Mim liked about helping the sisters with the soup kitchen. First, she liked any excuse to be near
Ella, the oldest sister. She stuck to Ella like glue. Today, a mouse came running through the Grange Hall kitchen and Mim chased it away with a broom. Afterward, Ella was feeling a little wobbly-kneed so she sat on a chair, pulled a tissue from her dress pocket, and dabbed at her forehead. “There’s just something about a mouse,” she said, and Mim had to agree.

  The second thing she liked was that as soon as the kitchen was cleaned up and the sisters returned home with their empty wagons, Mim and Bethany set off to the Stoney Ridge Times office. Bethany went into the building and returned with a large manila envelope of mail for Mrs. Miracle. As soon as they turned the corner, Bethany handed Mim the mail pouch.

  “What are you going to do with the money you’re making?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mim said. “It’s only five dollars a week.” Mostly, she needed to buy paper and envelopes and stamps. She might try to save enough money to buy Danny a new telescope that didn’t need to be held together with black electrical tape, but she had no idea how much telescopes cost. Plus, she wouldn’t want him to think she was sweet on him. She was, but it was better not to let a boy know such a thing. She had read that very thing in Mammi Vera’s book A Young Woman’s Guide to Virtue.

  The third thing Mim liked about volunteering at the Grange Hall was that she and Bethany passed by Danny Riehl’s home on the way home to Eagle Hill from downtown Stoney Ridge. If Mim walked slowly enough—if she had to stop and tie her shoelaces, for instance, like she did today—there was an excellent chance Danny would be doing chores in the barnyard and spot them. And when it happened, he waved and talked to them for a few minutes.

  She liked that best of all.

  Later that day, Mim sat cross-legged on her bed, unsure of what to do. Mrs. Miracle’s response to What Should I Do ran in Tuesday’s edition, and by this afternoon, Wednesday, when Bethany picked up the mail pouch at the Stoney Ridge Times office, there was already a responding letter to Mrs. Miracle’s wise and witty wisdom.

  Dear Mrs. Miracle,

  I showed my husband your column in which you said that our arguing really wasn’t about the kind of eggs we have for breakfast. We talked and talked about it . . . racked our brains over it . . . even went to an emergency counseling session with our pastor over it last night . . . but discovered it really was about the eggs!

  So our pastor suggested that we compromise: scrambled on Mondays, fried on Wednesdays, sunny-side up on Fridays. He also suggested that I not ask you for marital advice.

  Sincerely,

  Now I Know What to Do

  Oh, boy.

  As usual, life moved faster than Hank Lapp intended it to. Jimmy had hoped that working part-time at the Fisher Hatchery, in close proximity to his mother, might rekindle their on-again, off-again romance. The plan completely backfired. Hank had a love of talking and an aversion to hard work—two qualities his mother had no patience for.

  Though loyal and good-hearted, Hank had never displayed the slightest ability to learn from his experience, though his experience was considerable. Time and again he would walk into the yard of the henhouse, knowing there was a protective rooster lurking about, and then look surprised when the rooster came flying at him, claws first.

  Young Luke Schrock did the same kind of thing over at Galen’s. He would walk up on the wrong side of a horse that was known to kick, and then look surprised when he got kicked.

  When Jimmy thought about it, he wondered if there were some people in this world who were destined to make the same mistakes over and over. They simply could not learn from experience. Or maybe they just had no common sense.

  Jimmy saw Hank walk up the driveway three hours after he was due for the chickens’ first feeding. There was no point in losing any more time. If Hank was not of a mind to be serious, nothing could move him. Jimmy needed to fire Hank before his mother insisted on it.

  “HELLO THERE!” Hank hollered when he saw Jimmy in the distance.

  Jimmy walked down the hill to meet him. “Hank, you’re late. Ridiculously late.”

  “Not for the fish at Blue Lake Pond! We had a pre-dawn appointment today. My oh my, they practically leapt into my boat, Jimmy. You shoulda been there.”

  “Hank, you would exasperate a preacher.”

  “Well, I always figured preachers needed a little exasperating.”

  Jimmy yanked off his hat and swiped at the drops of sweat that clung to his forehead. “The thing is, Hank, the chickens can’t wait until you get back from fishing. They need to eat at a specific time, or they get stressed. If they get stressed, they stop laying eggs. If they stop laying, Fisher Hatchery goes under.”

  “Good thing them chickens have you looking after them.”

  “That’s the thing, Hank. The very thing. I was hoping you’d be looking after them so I could keep my job over at Galen’s. You’ve been late four out of four days this week.”

  “Now wait just a minute. I was only doing you a favor—minding those squawking hens. I don’t even like chickens. And I hate roosters. Always have.” Hank stiffened up like wet leather left out in the sun. “You know—you used to be a whole lot more fun. You’re turning into a crotchety old schoolmarm.”

  Jimmy sighed. “I’m sorry, Hank. I shouldn’t have pressured you into working here in the first place. I need to let you go.”

  Edith Fisher came out of the house, hefting a heaped laundry basket on a practiced hip, and crossed the yard to the clothesline.

  Hank noticed. In a split second, the expression on his face changed from a frustrated frown to a brilliant smile, like the sun appearing from behind a cloud. “DON’T FRET, BOY!” He winked at Jimmy. “Being in between jobs gives me a little more time to come calling on your sweet mama.” He brushed past Jimmy and went up the hill. “LET ME HELP YOU CARRY THAT HEAVY BASKET, MY LITTLE BUTTERCUP!”

  What was even more shocking was the mildly pleasant look on his mother’s face as she saw Hank approach.

  Jimmy shook his head in wonder. Maybe his plan hadn’t backfired quite as badly as he thought. Maybe he shouldn’t have fired Hank. No . . . that was definitely the right thing to do. His chickens would have perished under Hank’s care.

  His chickens? Since when did he think of those pesky hens as his chickens? Never! He felt just like Hank did about poultry. Couldn’t stand them.

  What was going on with him lately? Hank was right—he wasn’t fun like he used to be, if you considered fun to be stealing a nap by the pond when he should have been at his chores or playing a prank on an unsuspecting someone. Someone like the bishop, who could be easily tricked and was never the wiser for it. Jimmy didn’t even tilt his hat at a rakish angle anymore.

  But why? Why was he suddenly acting like . . . a man? A responsible man? He never expected such behavior of himself. It wasn’t comfortable—making a hard decision like firing his old friend Hank. It felt like he was wearing a pair of stiff new shoes. The newly mature side of him pointed out that maybe the shoes just needed breaking in. But the old side of him asked, why? The old shoes were pretty comfortable.

  The thing that made Jimmy least comfortable of all was that, deep down, he knew the reason for his newfound maturity. He never lied to himself. It had to do with Bethany Schrock. He was falling for her.

  The feeling had started even before he knew his mother didn’t want him courting Bethany, though he wouldn’t deny his mother’s vehemence made him all the more determined. He had started falling for Bethany from the first second he’d laid eyes on her, and a little deeper every moment he’d spent in her company since then.

  A few weeks back, he took Katie Zook home from a Sunday singing, and even kissed her a few times, just to see if he could be distracted by another girl, if being around another girl made him feel the same way he felt when he was around Bethany. It didn’t. It was yet another experiment that backfired on him.

  At night he thought of Bethany, and wondered if she ever thought of him. During the day, if he caught sight of her coming or going from Eagle Hill, he watch
ed her, whenever he thought he could do so without her noticing. Her eyes were mysterious to him—often she seemed to be amused by him, at other times irritated. Sometimes her eyes seemed to pierce him, as if she had decided to read his thoughts as she would read a book. It didn’t stop the longing he felt for her. He imagined them raising horses and children together. In a strange and wonderful way, he knew she was the girl for him. In a way he couldn’t quite explain, even to himself, he knew she needed him.

  No one had ever needed Jimmy before, not really. Not the way Bethany did.

  7

  Shootfire! Not another word of excuses!” Bethany pointed to the house. “You boys get right up to your rooms and think about how’d you feel if you were that goat!” Sammy and Luke climbed the porch stairs in tandem, with her watching all the way.

  To Bethany’s annoyance she saw Jimmy watching her from the hole in the privet with an amused grin on his face. “Sorry,” she said, trying to make light of it.

  “Don’t be,” Jimmy said. “I’m glad to see that you lose your temper with other people as well as with me.” He walked toward her. “What did those two do now?”

  “Look for yourself.”

  Over by the patch of grass along the side of the house was the billy goat with a push lawn mower harnessed behind him. “I told them to mow the lawn and this is what they came up with.”

  Jimmy grinned. “I tried that once myself. Didn’t work. The goat didn’t budge.” He walked toward her. “You have to give them credit for creativity.”

  “Lazy. That’s the only thing they get credit for. I’m about fed up with those two. If I give them any slack they run headfirst into trouble. You can never guess what may be going on in the minds of boys—”

  “Usually not much. Speaking from personal experience.”

  “—but it doesn’t pay to let them out of your sight very long.”

  “Aw, Bethany, they’re just being boys.”