The Calling

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  By the time the sisters arrived, the wagons were unloaded, the biscuit dough was resting, and Bethany was chopping vegetables for the soup. Geena stood next to her, staring at the cutting board as Bethany took the last onion, made six quick, deep cuts into the flesh, another six crossways, then chopped through the onion.

  “The speed that you cut an onion is amazing,” Geena said.

  “No man is his craft’s master the first day. That’s a saying my grandmother likes to quote. In other words: do enough of anything and you’ll get good at it.”

  “Except for preaching,” Geena said with a grin.

  Just then the girls from the Group Home slipped in early—something Sylvia didn’t normally allow. She thought Sylvia or Fannie might shoo them out but they were preoccupied with taking turkey meat off the carcass and chopping it up for the soup. Lena, Ada, and Ella, setting the tables, were too softhearted to ask them to wait outside.

  Bethany would have liked to give those girls jobs to do to help get lunch ready—set places, sweep the floor, fill glasses with that sugary Dr Pepper and juice drink—but when she brought it up once, Sylvia disagreed. She said it wasn’t time yet. Bethany didn’t know what she meant by that—as far as she was concerned, there was work to be done and those girls needed to work.

  Geena left the kitchen and went over to talk to the girls from the Group Home. She pulled out a chair and sat next to Rusty. They talked awhile—sadly out of Bethany’s earshot. Geena patted her on the shoulder. Why? Rusty didn’t seem like the type to pat much.

  Bethany had been watching Rusty since she came in. Inside her battled a war: her basic nature was to be confrontational and she knew, she just knew, Rusty had something to do with the trashing of the community garden. But she also knew it was wrong to accuse others. Hadn’t it been drilled into her for as long as she could remember? What right did she have to accuse another of a sin when she was a sinner herself? And she was.

  Still, wasn’t it important to be held accountable for one’s actions? To face consequences. Isn’t that what Rose was trying to get Tobe to understand? But then . . . Rose wanted Tobe to take responsibility for himself. That was the rub, right there. Bethany wanted someone else to hold Rusty accountable. She could feel the pointed finger of judgment brew within her, and that was where pride gained hold.

  “It’s good of you to show interest in those girls,” Bethany said when Geena returned to the kitchen.

  “It’s always illuminating to me,” Geena said. “It really boils down to the fact that the girls want to feel understood, accepted, and heard even while they struggle to understand, accept, and hear others. I guess it’s not that surprising when I stop to think about it. That’s what everybody wants and what everybody finds so hard to do.”

  Bethany took a pan of biscuits out of the oven. “I guess that’s the difference between the Amish and the English. Being English means you struggle to find your place. Being Amish means you belong.”

  Geena found a spatula in a drawer and scooped the hot biscuits into a basket. “Don’t forget these girls are on the extreme side of your definition of being ‘English.’ Most of them have never been wanted by their families; they’ve never belonged anywhere. I remember something one of my seminary professors had said: ‘Most people are in way more pain than anybody knows.’ That is so true.” Geena carried the dirty spatula to the sink and rinsed it off. She put the spatula away in a drawer.

  Bethany started to ladle out the soup into empty bowls set on the countertop. “I guess I haven’t thought about why the girls were the way they were. I’ve only noticed how they act. Like they’re always pushing people away from them.”

  Geena set the soup bowls on a tray. “What I’ve come to learn is that hurt people push others away because they want someone to come and get them, to say they haven’t forgotten about them, to show how much they’re wanted and needed.”

  Bethany fit three more bowls on Geena’s tray. “Maybe if those girls made a little effort in the right direction, it might be easier for people to want and need them.” There it was again: judgment. It was gaining a foothold. “Don’t listen to me. I’m still frazzled from yesterday.”

  “It’s been a big week for you, Bethany. It’s a lot to process. Give yourself time.” Geena squeezed her arm before she took the tray to the dining room.

  Process. Geena had used that term before. She made it sound like thoughts and feelings were in motion and maybe they were. Bethany felt like she was trying to sort things through and put them where they belonged. It was as if her cluttered mind was a version of the Sisters’ House and she was trying to get it organized.

  Bethany ladled out more bowls of turkey rice soup and put them on a tray to take to the table of Group Home girls. They always sat in the same place—the farthest table. One clump on one side, one clump on the other, as if they didn’t like each other and, probably, they didn’t. She tried to focus on what Geena had mentioned—that these girls, including Rusty, were hurt souls, longing to be loved and valued. Noticed.

  With a sigh and a prayer, she took the tray over to the table and set it on the table. One by one, she served a bowl of soup to each girl. She forced herself to smile and make eye contact. Then she came to Rusty. The two of them locked eyes almost like clockwork.

  As Bethany reached across the table to serve the bowl to Rusty, she slipped Bethany a note. She put it in her dress pocket. When she went back into the kitchen, she pulled it from her pocket and read it. A chill moved through her, tickling down her spine.

  Yesterday was just a warning. Tell Tobe to leave it alone.

  It was in Jake Hertzler’s handwriting.

  17

  Shootfire! When it came to Jake Hertzler, Bethany made mistake after mistake after mistake. She was the one who had introduced him to her father, years ago, on a Sunday morning at church. She mentioned to her father that Jake had accounting skills and was looking for a job. She had done it intentionally—she thought Jake was charming and handsome, and he was. But he was also crafty and cunning and shrewd . . . and now she had discovered that he could be threatening.

  Her anger evaporated as she realized, It’s all my fault.

  Why had she called Jake and left that message, tipping him off to Tobe’s whereabouts? She was ashamed of her action, embarrassed by it, unsure of what to do about the note from him. What had she done? What did Jake mean—warning Tobe to “leave it alone.” Leave what alone?

  Why did she always seem to underestimate Jake?

  She knew why. She was raised to believe the best in others—it was ingrained into her. How many times had she been told that if you search for the best in people you’re bound to find it?

  But what about people in whom there was no best?

  Chase had been following her from room to room as she paced through the farmhouse, never leaving her side for longer than he absolutely had to. She sat at the kitchen table and he slumped under her chair and gazed at her, a worried expression on his furry face. Then his tail began to wag. She bent down and stroked his ears. She knew she needed to start dinner soon, but her thoughts couldn’t leave that note.

  She looked at it again. It was definitely Jake’s distinctive handwriting. Rusty must have some involvement with Jake—which made it all the more likely that she had played a role in trashing the garden. Bethany thought back to those three figures she had seen at the back of the garden. She didn’t think any was a man, but Jake had a slight build. Maybe one of those had been Jake, along with Rusty and one of her friends.

  She wished she could talk to Rose. Or Galen. Geena? Should she call Allen Turner? Rose had left his business card on the kitchen countertop. But if Tobe heard about this, he would clam up and stop talking to Allen Turner. And then, without realizing the ramifications of clamming up, he would end up taking responsibility for the illegal things Jake had done to the business. She knew her brother’s nature. He would avoid conflict at all cost. Why else had he disappeared for nearly a year?

  Sh
e folded up the note. She just didn’t know who to talk to or even how they could help. She tried to think straight and gather facts.

  One fact in particular stared back at her: Jake was nearby.

  Each afternoon, around five-ish, Mim waited at the phone shanty, hoping for a call from Danny Riehl to go stargazing. If he did happen to call, which wasn’t often, it would be around that time of day. He would have finished his evening chores and be checking phone messages for his father before he’d be expected back at the house. She didn’t really think he would call because there was a full moon tonight, round and creamy. Beautiful for the soft light it shed on the fields but too bright for stargazing. Those were the thoughts that were running through Mim’s mind as the phone rang. She took a startled step backward, then lunged for it, sure it was Danny.

  Instead, it was Rose, Mim’s mother. “How’s everything going, Mim?”

  “Everything’s fine. Well, at Eagle Hill, anyway. Bethany moved into my room so Geena Spencer could stay in her room. There’s a new couple staying in the guest flat. They seem nice, but they’re not around much. Turns out the lady is allergic to horses so she runs from the guest flat to her car with a pink handkerchief over her mouth.”

  “I wonder why she came to an Amish farm if she’s allergic to horses.”

  Mim had the same thought. “And she needs her food to be gluten free. We’ve been giving her scrambled eggs and applesauce for breakfast and told her they’re gluten free.”

  “Mim—those things have always been gluten free.”

  “We know. But the lady seemed impressed so we decided not to say anything more.”

  “Do you think Geena will stay on for the rest of the week?”

  “I hope so. She helped clean up the mess at the community garden.”

  “Wait. What? Why was there a mess?”

  “Someone trashed the gardens on Tuesday afternoon.”

  “What? Why? What happened?”

  “Nobody knows.”

  Silence. “I’m sorry about that. You’ve all worked so hard on those gardens.”

  “No kidding. But everybody has. And the same people helped clean it all up. It almost looks as good as it did on Saturday afternoon. Almost.”

  “What else have you been doing?”

  “Me? Um . . . I . . .” She’d been sifting through letters for Mrs. Miracle and hoping to go stargazing with Danny Riehl, but she couldn’t tell her mom any of that. “The usual. Chickens, horses, goat.”

  “Are the boys behaving?”

  “Same as usual. Galen keeps them so busy that they fall asleep early.”

  Her mom laughed. “Good for him. That’s pretty smart.”

  “How’s Mammi Vera holding up?”

  “She’s sticking close to Tobe whenever we’re at Allen Turner’s office.”

  “Mom, is everything going to turn out all right for Tobe?”

  “I . . . don’t know yet. I hope so. He’s spending a lot of time in depositions.”

  Mim knew all about those. She read up on depositions after a letter to Mrs. Miracle mentioned them. “But he’ll be coming home soon, won’t he? Won’t all of you be home soon?”

  There was a long pause. “I’ll know more in a day or two. Are you managing by yourselves? Do you think Geena might stay until we return?”

  “I can ask her. She doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to get home.”

  “You can ask Galen for help too.”

  “I know. He stops by each day.”

  “Is Bethany doing all right?”

  “She’s been awful quiet.” Mim wasn’t sure where Bethany had gone on Tuesday, but she had come home a different person. Quiet, defeated. Another reason she was glad Geena was staying.

  “I guess we’re all shaken up by Tobe’s return. Give her time, Mim.” Mammi Vera’s voice was calling in the background. “Your grandmother needs some help. I’ll call again when there’s news. And feel free to call Delia’s house. The number is on the kitchen countertop. Bye, Mim.”

  Mim hung up the receiver and walked to the house, up to her bedroom, and back to her secret role as Mrs. Miracle. She wished she could talk to her mom about a problem that was brewing for Mrs. Miracle. Bethany had brought over the mail from the Stoney Ridge Times office and the envelope was bursting at the seams. Nearly every letter was about Mrs. Miracle’s advice to “Wringing My Hands.” Readers had all kinds of opinions about whether it was right to meddle in marriages. Four to one ran against Wringing My Hands telling the truth to her friend, Nancy. But what distressed Mim was the actual response from Wringing My Hands. She had absolutely no idea how to respond back to her:

  Dear Mrs. Miracle,

  I took your advice and thought about whether I would want Nancy to tell me if my husband were having an affair. I would be grateful to my friend for the courage to tell me the truth and not let me remain a fool. So I told Nancy that her dentist husband was having an affair with his hygienist.

  Nancy didn’t believe me and said she will never speak to me again.

  Really Wringing My Hands

  Mrs. Miracle’s sterling advice might not have been quite as wonderful as Mim had thought. Then another letter completely baffled Mim:

  Dear Mrs. Miracle,

  Have you ever noticed that you often answer a question with a question? Why is that? Are you trying to avoid giving an answer?

  Cordially,

  Wants an Answer

  Oh, boy. What could she say to that? Then she realized she had just done the very thing Wants an Answer accused her of doing.

  She pulled out the next letter.

  Dear Mrs. Miracle,

  I messed things up. And now I don’t know how to fix them.

  Sincerely,

  Stuck

  Mim chewed on the inside of her cheek. Now this, she thought she knew how to answer. For years, her mom had disciplined her two little brothers in just this way and it always worked:

  Dear Stuck,

  You can do two things:

  1) Apologize (sincerely).

  2) Do something that helps someone else.

  Sincerely,

  Mrs. Miracle

  On Thursday, after Bethany and Mim had spent a few hours tackling another corner of the Sisters’ House, they walked into town to take care of a few errands. Chase had tagged along with them to the Sisters’ House, where the sisters kept slipping him snacks, and then trotted behind the girls as they walked to town. When they reached Main Street, Mim handed Bethany the envelope that contained next week’s Mrs. Miracle column. She was proud of herself for being ahead of her deadline.

  “Be sure to ask for my paycheck,” Mim said.

  “You mean, my paycheck,” Bethany said. “Don’t forget that it’s made out to me.”

  Mim frowned. “I’m going to get something at Pearl’s Gift Store. Come on, Chase. We’ll meet you back at this end of Main Street in ten minutes.” Chase’s ears pricked up at the mention of his name. Tongue lolling, tail wagging, he trotted behind Mim.

  Bethany went into the Stoney Ridge Times office and asked the woman at the receptionist’s desk for the envelopes for Mrs. Miracle. She wasn’t the usual receptionist and peered curiously at Bethany as she handed her the manila envelope. “I’m Penny Williams. I’m a new hire. Just started today. You can’t be . . . you aren’t . . . Mrs. Miracle?” Her voice was hushed in awe.

  “No,” Bethany answered truthfully. “Her true identity is top secret.”

  “Of course you couldn’t be Mrs. Miracle. She’s got to be an old woman! Please tell her I love the column. It’s getting a lot of buzz—everyone thinks Mrs. Miracle gives such comforting wisdom.”

  Bethany had to bite hard on her lower lip to keep from bursting into laughter. What would Penny Williams say if she knew Mrs. Miracle was a fourteen-year-old!

  As the receptionist went to get Mrs. Miracle’s paycheck, Bethany heard the sound of tires screeching, then a blood-chilling scream that sounded like Mim. Bethany dropped the column on the receptioni
st’s desk and bolted to the door. She ran all the way down Main Street. Her bonnet blew off and a car had to stop short to let her cross the street.

  There, lying in the middle of the street, was Chase. Mim was beside herself, shrieking that he’d been hit by a car, tears running down her face as she hovered over the poor dog. Bethany lifted Chase’s head, and his eyes opened but he didn’t even whimper. Between Mim’s sobs she could hear him breathing hard. He was still alive. A crowd of people started to gather and suddenly beside her was Jimmy Fisher. He knelt down and put a hand on Chase’s chest. He looked up at Bethany. “Go get my buggy. It’s in front of the Hay & Grain.” She hesitated, not wanting to leave Chase. “Go now.”

  She ran to it and drove the buggy over to where Chase lay. “Hurry, Jimmy. We can get him to the vet.”

  But Jimmy didn’t hurry. His hand was still on Chase’s chest. A soft look passed over his face. “I’m sorry. He’s gone.”

  Bethany looked at Chase, feeling utterly helpless. Sweet old Chase lay dead. She would not let herself cry, not now. She needed to be strong for her sister. Mim held her hands in tight fists against her mouth.

  Jimmy took over and lifted Chase in his arms. “I’ll take him to Eagle Hill and bury him.” Bethany spread a buggy blanket on the floor of the buggy and gently laid Chase on top. As Jimmy guided a stricken Mim into the buggy, Bethany remembered her bonnet and walked down the block to look for it. She found it in the gutter and bent down to pick it up. When she looked up, she noticed Rusty from the Group Home, about one hundred yards away, standing against a tree, watching the whole thing with an unreadable look on her face. Bethany locked eyes with her, until Rusty did a sharp about-face and walked away.

  Back at the buggy, Bethany asked Mim if she had seen who had hit Chase. “No. It happened so fast. I was crossing the street and Chase was behind me. The next thing I knew, I heard the sound of a big thump, then a car rushed off.”