A Stranger's Wish (The Amish Farm Trilogy 1)

by Gayle Roper

  “Is he an understanding man, or should I write a note for you?”

  “Dear Mr. Edgars, please excuse Kristie. She got locked in a closet?”

  He grinned, and I was happy to see him smiling instead of fretting. “Beats ‘The dog ate it.’ ”

  “Anyway,” I continued, “this morning Mary was very concerned when I didn’t come down to breakfast. She finally checked my bed and, surprise, surprise, it hadn’t been slept in. She made Jake call the school, and it became obvious as they talked that I hadn’t been seen after I left the house last evening. Jake remembered I was going to your place, and he called the police.”

  “And they called me. Let me tell you, I thought I was going to have another coronary. The news that you were okay was such a relief!”

  I was touched by his concern.

  “And you didn’t see the thief?” he asked.

  “Not a glimpse. The laughter I heard through the closet door was so deep that I’m certain it was a man, but that’s all I know. I’m just sorry your apartment was ransacked. The man did a thorough job of it.”

  Mr. Geohagan shook his head. “I don’t care about the apartment at all. It’s only somewhere to sleep. It’s not my home, my house. I lost the one when Cathleen died and Doris became sick, and sold the other not long after. I just couldn’t stand being there anymore. There’s nothing in that apartment I’d miss—except you.”

  My eyes misted. “That’s so sweet.” But I was struck again by the emptiness of his life.

  Lord, I’m alone too. Don’t let me ever have a life that barren. Please! And help me fill some of the holes in his life.

  I handed him today’s Intelligencer Journal.

  “You were right,” I said, pointing to page one. “Sick calls are indeed good copy, and now you’re famous.”

  He looked at the front page picture of himself and Adam Hurlbert shaking hands. Hurlbert had health and vitality oozing from every pore. Even his toothy smile had vigor. Mr. Geohagan looked worse than ever by contrast. The black-and-white picture drained what little color he had and left him looking cadaverous.

  “How convenient for Adam that I chose this time to become ill,” he said cynically.

  “But not very convenient for you. You need to get better so you can get back to normal living. You’ve got all that stuff to do!”

  “Nothing’s normal about my life anymore,” he said, his bitterness and self-pity kicking in with a vengeance. “My daughter’s dead, my wife’s had a stroke and doesn’t even know me, and I’m sick, sick, sick!”

  Forcing down my sympathy, I said, “To what do we owe your rousing good spirits? I’m the one who spent the night in the closet, not you.”

  To my surprise, Mr. Geohagan laughed. “Just like Cathleen. That slight touch of hauteur when upset. You’re so good for me, Kristie.”

  I smiled. “I’m glad.”

  “You’d have liked her,” Mr. Geohagan said. “She was a marvelous girl until—” He stopped abruptly.

  “Until?” I prompted automatically, and then I regretted speaking for fear I’d overstepped my bounds. Though I reminded him of his daughter, I didn’t have the right to pry into family business. When he finally began to speak, I was relieved.

  “Until she became involved with a man. Isn’t it always a man?”

  I nodded obligingly.

  “They had an affair. She moved out of our house and into an apartment of her own to facilitate matters. Then he dumped her, and she couldn’t handle it. She began drinking and taking massive doses of relaxants that she got for a ‘sore back.’ One night she took too much of both.” Mr. Geohagan sighed with utter desolation. “And I don’t know if it was an accident or not.”

  My heart lurched. To not know whether your daughter committed suicide must be the only thing worse than knowing she did.

  “Her mother and I found her, lying on the floor in the bathroom. Doris had become concerned because we hadn’t heard from her for a few days and couldn’t get her on the phone.”

  Mr. Geohagan stared out the window. “She was a fairy child, quick, happy, beautiful, born long after we despaired of having a baby. Even her teen years were joyous. She never had the traumas others had. Everyone loved her and she them—until the affair collapsed.”

  Mr. Geohagan folded and refolded his sheet, making linen accordion pleats. “Not that we minded the affair—at least not at first,” he said, hastening to assure me that even it hadn’t caused a rift in his marvelous relationship with his daughter. “The man was a fine man—we thought.”

  “You really didn’t mind?” My father would have had a fit. Other women might live with some man, but not his daughters. Never his daughters.

  Mr. Geohagan looked surprised. “Of course I didn’t mind. It’s not like she was sixteen. She was twenty-one, a woman. A wonderful woman. And I’ll never forgive God for letting her die.”

  I started, not because what he said shocked me, but because he spoke the last sentence with such animosity.

  Mr. Geohagan saw my expression. “My feelings toward God shock you, don’t they?”

  “Sadden me,” I said, but he didn’t hear.

  “I have no use for God.” The hard edge in his voice could have cut steel. “Where was He when Cathleen was hurting? When Doris had her stroke? No.” He shook his head. “I have no time for a ‘loving God’ who would allow those things to happen.”

  He closed his eyes, his bitterness wrapped around him like a cloak about a freezing man. “Why don’t you come see me the day after tomorrow?”

  11

  As the days passed, I found myself much preoccupied with concern for Mr. Geohagan and uncertainty about Todd.

  I knew there was little I could do for Mr. Geohagan except pray for him and visit him whenever I could manage it. A few minutes of my time was a small price to pay for the smile he gave me when I entered his room and the gentle teasing I suffered at his hand.

  “Why aren’t you married?” he asked me one day. “You must have a secret flaw I haven’t found yet.”

  “If I tell you, then it won’t be a secret flaw any more,” I answered with a cocky smile. “Once flaws leave hiding, they can’t be put back, you know.”

  Nonplussed, he then took aim at my wardrobe. “Didn’t you ever hear of good taste? That purple-and-pink thing you’re wearing has a crooked front and the colors boggle the mind.”

  “It’s not purple and pink,” I protested. “It’s mauve, lavender, and lilac. And it’s not a thing; it’s a sweater. It’s also not crooked; it’s called an asymmetrical opening. And, I’ll have you know, I made it.”

  “I knew that. Certainly no store would sell it.” And he grinned.

  “You are a mean old man.”

  I began to pray more and more that by my love and concern I would show him the heart of the God he was so angry at. I wanted his bitterness to be lost in the embrace of God’s love.

  Todd was another story.

  “If only he were a jerk,” I told Hawk one late September Friday evening as we sat together on the front steps. Since the night in the closet, I hadn’t allowed myself to daydream about Clarke, but the fact that I had once done so threw my feelings for Todd into a starker light than ever. “But he’s so nice, and I don’t want to hurt him.”

  Hawk looked at me with his tongue lolling off to one side. His eyes held sympathy for my dilemma, though what he’d say if he knew Todd had once called him mangy, I could only imagine.

  “Do you often talk to dogs?”

  I started and looked at Jake as he wheeled up beside me. “Sheesh, guy! Do you always sneak up on people? That’s twice you’ve gotten me.”

  He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. “I’ve been looking for one positive thing about this chair. If sneaking is it, I’ll take it.”

  I shook my head in mock indignation. “Yes, I like talking to dogs. They never sass or complain, and they always look so interested and intelligent. And they run right up to you, announcing themselves with barks and
wiggles, not like some people I know. What more could I ask of a companion?”

  Jake reached out to Hawk, and the dog immediately deserted me.

  “Of course, faithfulness and loyalty might also be nice,” I said.

  Jake laughed and ran his hand gently over the dog’s head. “Tell me, Hawk, what should I do with my life? What should Kristie do with hers?”

  Hawk wagged his tail happily.

  “Should I stay forever on this farm?” he asked. “Should she marry that Todd person? Give us your answers, please.”

  Hawk placed his forepaws on Jake’s knees, raised himself, and licked Jake’s face in great, moist swipes.

  “What are you going to do with your life?” I asked as Hawk sank to the ground beside the wheelchair.

  Jake shrugged.

  “Come on,” I encouraged him. “You cut in on my conversation with Hawk. Now you’ve got to answer. It’s the rule.”

  “Right. One you just made up.”

  “My conversation. My rules. What do you want to do?”

  He studied the field across the road. “My life may not seem very exciting to you, but it’s safe and I like that. All I want is for it to stay the same.”

  “That’s it?” I was disappointed. Where was the guy who didn’t automatically buy into the way of life he was raised to, who rode motorcycles, and who claimed to have been a wild man? Had his rebellious spirit been broken along with his back?

  He gave me a weary look and slapped the side of his chair. “Look where risk and excitement got me.”

  “And it’s enough just to be safe?”

  “For now, anyway. At the moment sitting around is all I feel like doing.”

  “But it’s so passive, and you used to be so active.”

  He was studying the field across the road again. “In other words, I should get a life?”

  “What did you do before the accident?”

  “I worked in a trailer fabricating plant riveting the shells of travel trailers together. There’s no way I can do that now. You have to be completely mobile.”

  “Okay, what else would you like to do?”

  “I don’t have any other skills. After all, I left school at fourteen.”

  “I’ve always thought the concession by the state that lets Amish kids leave school so young, in spite of the law that says sixteen is the minimum legal dropout age, is a mistake,” I said.

  “Most Amish kids don’t go beyond eighth grade. They’re supposed to go to Saturday morning classes for another year to study religion, but no one cares much if it doesn’t happen. Of course, Mom and Father made us go. They always do everything the right way.”

  I knew I was the product of a family that had a lot of respect for education and its power and had instilled that mind-set in me. Still… “Eighth grade isn’t enough education to manage in today’s world.”

  Using his arms to raise and then lower himself, Jake shifted his weight. “My grandfather and great-grandfather were some of the Amish elders who went to jail in protest over the sixteen-years-old law. They felt the community should be able to set their own educational requirements.”

  “Interesting, and maybe it wasn’t too bad when most everyone was still farming. But now, don’t you agree that eighth grade is too little?”

  “It didn’t seem so when I was able to work at a job that required brawn over brains. Or I should say, over book learning. I worked for Father here on the farm until I was eighteen. Then I went to the plant. Much better money. When I turned twenty-one, I was allowed to keep all my salary for myself. I bought one of the trailers we made and parked it at the edge of some woods.”

  I listened to this obviously intelligent man and thought about the waste of a good mind. “Have you ever thought about getting a high school equivalency degree? It would allow you to find a better job or maybe even go to college.”

  “Amishmen don’t go to college. Education makes you prideful.”

  I snorted. “You’re about as Amish as I am. And since you can’t climb around on the trailer shells anymore, you’re going to have to depend on your mind.”

  “That’s what Todd suggested.”

  I blinked. “Todd?”

  “The last time he came out here, he brought me a book and some CDs from the Lancaster library. They’re all about GEDs and how to get one. I spent a couple of hours reading and listening.” He shrugged again. “It was interesting enough, and I do like learning stuff. Maybe I’ll try it someday.”

  “Oh, I think you should,” I said too enthusiastically.

  Jake raised an eyebrow and I felt foolish. I sounded as though I were encouraging one of my less academically nimble school kids.

  “Well, you should,” I said more quietly.

  “Maybe someday,” he repeated. “I’ve got a new toy to keep me occupied for the time being.” He pointed to the dark green Caravan in the drive. “I finally took my driver’s test for hand-controlled driving. Andy and Zeke have been after me to do it for some time. Even Father encouraged me as a way of getting me involved in life again. Then Jon Clarke started on me too, and I finally got tired of fighting everyone. The same thing’ll probably happen with the GED.”

  I stared at the van and wondered if Jake had always been so passive. Did he always need people pushing him, encouraging him, urging him on? Or was it a side effect of becoming disabled? Either way I was willing to be part of his cheering section if it would help him move forward.

  But who was I to criticize? In my own way, I was just as passive, just as indecisive. I sighed.

  “What’s wrong?” Jake asked.

  “Todd.”

  “What about him? He’s losing interest? You’re losing interest?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bad sign, Kristie. If he’s the one for you, shouldn’t you be certain? Shouldn’t you know? Feel all lovey toward him?”

  “I should, to all three.”

  “But you don’t.” Jake slanted me a thoughtful look. “He’s an okay guy, if you want my opinion. Maybe a bit stuffy and more than a little opinionated, but nice enough in his own way.”

  That was Todd all right.

  “The only thing is,” and Jake became very serious, “maybe nice isn’t enough to marry on.”

  All night that thought flowed through my mind. “Maybe nice isn’t enough to marry on.” When I pulled myself from bed at six thirty Saturday morning after a ragged night’s sleep, it was the first thing I thought of. Maybe nice isn’t enough to marry on.

  I grabbed my robe and padded downstairs to the bathroom. As I walked through the kitchen, Mary and Ruth, already up for well over an hour, were finishing the breakfast cleanup. They were so cheerful I shuddered.

  Maybe nice isn’t enough to marry on.

  I turned on the shower and let the hot water nudge me awake. I put Todd from my mind and thought again about the Amishman’s wonderful ingenuity and expediency. An electric motor in the house to pump the water for the shower would be anti-Ordnung, so a water tank on high stilts stood outside the shed. The water was pumped to the tank by a waterwheel on the farm stream. From the tank it fell by gravity to the coal-fired water heater, was pumped by a battery-operated pump to the shower, and was therefore “legal” as it sprayed gently on me.

  I quickly toweled myself dry and hurried upstairs to dress. The morning was brisk, forecasting colder days coming. Soon I’d be seeing my breath and longing for the comforts of central heating. I needed to talk to Jake about electric baseboard heat.

  The big kitchen stove was still warm when I finally came down, so I scrambled myself an egg and enjoyed it with a cup of tea and some potato rusk Mary had baked yesterday.

  By seven thirty Mary and I were in my car, ready to leave for the Bird-in-Hand farmers’ market on 340. The back of the car was filled with jar upon jar of Mary’s delicious preserved goods—chowchow, tomatoes, tomato juice, salsa, green beans, beets, pickles, pickled melon, and relishes. Two large boxes were filled with bags of homemade pota
to chips and breads.

  Though the Bird-in-Hand farmers’ market was neither the biggest nor best known in the area, it was good sized and convenient for Mary. We transferred all her goods from the car to a booth in the market and arranged them for sale. At eight thirty the doors opened, late for a farmers’ market but early for the tourists who often visited it.

  “Don’t bother coming back for me,” Mary said as she accepted money from her first customer. “I’ll find a ride home.”

  I walked around the market, enjoying the sights and smells and sounds. The largest crowd stood patiently before the meat counter, waiting to buy fresh beef and pork products.

  “I just love the ham loaf they sell. It has pork in it as well as ground ham,” said a well-endowed woman with her sunglasses perched on top of her head.

  The Mennonite woman standing beside her nodded. “We love the homemade sausage.”

  A pair of Amish women sat behind a display of handbraided rugs chatting in Pennsylvania Dutch as they waited for customers. When I stopped to admire their handiwork, they immediately switched to English.

  “May we help you?”

  I smiled and shook my head. As I turned away, the women picked up their Dutch conversation where they had dropped it.

  It fascinated me that, though basically what most people (including me) would call undereducated, the Amish were trilingual. At home they spoke their Pennsylvania Dutch dialect, a form of German, Deutsch having somewhere through the years become Dutch. They spoke English to non-Amish, and used High German for religious and ceremonial occasions.

  The Zooks, ever gracious, always spoke English in my presence, though on the occasions I had come home to find a house full of company, they had all been speaking Dutch. As Mary introduced me around, everyone spoke politely in English. However as soon as I moved on, the conversations reverted to Dutch.