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

by Gayle Roper

  “Then I’ve got a good project to fill some of your time. Read the Bible and check out God’s claims and promises.”

  He looked less than excited with my idea. Boredom was obviously preferable. “I haven’t got a Bible.”

  “Sure you do.” I reached into his bedside table and pulled out a Gideon Bible. “I challenge you to read the Gospel of John. I’m going to get your papers for you. You read John for me.”

  He looked at me as though I had suddenly developed a bad odor.

  “It’s better for you than your daily diet of soaps,” I said.

  If possible, his lip curled further in disgust. “No wonder that guy dumped you,” he said nastily. “You’re too dictatorial.”

  I decided that maybe Doris wasn’t so lucky after all.

  18

  There were pockets of time when I thought I’d die from the sharp pain that pierced my heart whenever I thought of Clarke. My breath would catch in my throat and my eyes would fill.

  Maybe I’m overreacting, I’d tell myself as I struggled for control. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. Maybe there’s nothing for me to be upset about. Maybe being kissed by a beautiful girl in the church parking lot doesn’t mean a thing. After all, it could be a most trivial matter.

  Then again, maybe it did mean something. Maybe it meant a lot. Clarke wasn’t the type to go around kissing girls lightly. After all, he was a responsible Christian leader, a counselor and teacher. Maybe the problem was my conclusion-jumping, but not in reference to him and her. In reference to him and me. I saw romance where there was none, affection where there was mere consideration and appreciation. After all, when Nelson blasted him with that question, what could he say?

  “May you be so lucky when you grow up.”

  All that statement proved was that Clarke was too polite to embarrass me in public. If he really cared, he’d call or come see me.

  And he did neither.

  I sighed. Was this the pain and distress Todd was feeling? If so, it served me right to reap what I had sown.

  Surprisingly, the arrival of Isaiah at the farm was a great help to me. He turned out to be one of the most pleasant people I’d ever been around. He had an indefatigably positive outlook on life, and he shared his good spirits through an unending stream of admittedly adolescent practical jokes.

  John had the dubious pleasure of having the saltshaker lid and all the salt fall into his morning oatmeal as Ruth giggled in delight at the cleverness of her betrothed.

  Mary lifted the lid on one of her pots and screamed when she found four severed chicken heads where there should have been gently stewing bodies.

  I bit into an egg salad sandwich only to notice a strange taste. When I lifted the top slice of bread to see what was wrong, I found one of Hawk’s Milk Bones sitting soggily amid the eggs.

  All this had happened within twenty-four hours of Isaiah’s arrival.

  On another front, Mary told me, “I think John will say yes to selling my paintings.” As she spoke, she looked over her shoulder to see where Isaiah was. “But we won’t do anything until after the wedding.”

  That made sense to me. “I’ll do some scouting for places willing to carry your paintings while you wait.” I knew that most of the area stores and galleries would jump at the chance to be part of the rare phenomenon of an Amish artist. We just had to find the situation best for Mary.

  Ruth was giddy and Mary glowed with a quiet satisfaction. I tried not to be the little black cloud that dripped on everyone else’s happy parade.

  Living with the gentle paranoia Ruth’s intended induced not only held up John’s decision; it also helped me keep thoughts of Clarke at bay. Still, I thought it was a bit much the Monday evening before the wedding when I pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table to talk to Mary and sat on Hawk’s metal brush, bristles up.

  “Ruth thinks he’s wonderful,” said a sympathetic Mary, trying not to laugh as I rubbed my punctured anatomy. “They’ve driven me wild with worry on many occasions, but I’m hard pressed not to like him.”

  “Ruth will never be bored,” I said, placing the offending brush in plain view lest someone else get similarly perforated.

  Mary sat across from me. “At least they’re staying Plain. You probably don’t understand how important that is to us, and I don’t think I can begin to explain how thankful we are.”

  “I know how my parents would react if I turned my back on the Lord,” I said, honored by Mary’s openness.

  She nodded. “Lately I’ve been so pleased to watch Elam develop a real faith. I hope that in time Ruth and Isaiah will learn not just the Ordnung but the living faith beneath it.”

  I rested my elbows on the table after checking carefully for any other booby traps. “How do you define faith, Mary?”

  She frowned in thought. “Well, there’s Jesus and there’s the church. You believe in Jesus and keep the rules of the church, and you hope for the best. Of course, it’s very important to be separate from the world so you don’t become worldly and proud.”

  “You believe not being worldly is important to salvation?”

  “Oh, yes. Don’t you? ‘Be not conformed to this world.’ You have to be obedient to the Ordnung to be redeemed.”

  “Then living your life properly is as important as believing in Jesus?”

  “Living in harmony with the church is necessary,” she said, not really answering my question.

  “Which is why I can’t become a Christian,” Jake said as he rolled into the room. “As you both have undoubtedly noticed, the church and I aren’t exactly in tune.”

  Pain shot across Mary’s face at her son’s remark.

  He smiled amiably, either oblivious to his mother’s distress or ignoring it. “Do we have root beer, Mom?”

  “There’s some in the refrigerator. Let me get it for you.” She pushed herself up from the table and went to the refrigerator. She pulled out a bottle and brought it to him. Then, with tears in her eyes, she went upstairs.

  I turned on Jake. “How long were you eavesdropping?”

  “Long enough. And don’t scowl at me like that. I don’t make a habit of skulking around with my ear to the wall. I happened to be coming in and hesitated a minute to hear what you two had to say.” He shrugged. “Discussions about religion interest me. I keep hoping I’ll learn something that allows a little bit of leeway for a black sheep like me.”

  “Don’t do that, Jake,” I said softly.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “Don’t hide behind the traditions of your family.”

  He watched me warily. “What do you mean?”

  “You keep using your family’s Amish-ness as an excuse for not becoming a Christian.”

  “What do you know about Amish-ness?” His voice was hard. “Do you think a couple of months on an Amish farm makes you an expert? You don’t know anything about the pressure, the sermons, the rules.”

  “You’re right; I don’t. But you’re missing my point. Being a Christian has nothing to do with traditions of any kind, no matter how much you love them or hate them. It has to do with a personal faith in Jesus as the Christ. Either you choose to believe in Him or you don’t.”

  “That’s not what they say.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “What?”

  “You’re hiding behind them.”

  “I am not,” he defended himself angrily. “I’m just stating what they say.”

  “The issue is what you say, Jake, not what they say,” I said. “You can’t spend your whole life saying it’s everyone else’s fault that you don’t believe.”

  “Do you have any idea how tired I am of everybody telling me what I should do, what I should believe? Like I’m not smart enough to reach any conclusions of my own! ‘Jake, do this.’ ‘Jake, do that.’ ‘Jake, go to school.’ ‘Jake, believe in Jesus.’ You’d think I lost my mind, not my legs! Even you get on me, and not just about religion!”

  “Me?”

&nbs
p; “You want me to meet this Rose person. I have enough trouble just getting through every day without meeting the person who saw me at my worst!”

  I refused to sympathize. “See? You’re doing it again. Everybody’s picking on you, so it’s everybody’s fault, not yours. It’s even Rose’s fault that you won’t meet her because she happened to be indiscreet enough to be at the accident scene. I think you’re hiding behind ‘everybody’ to avoid making choices of your own.”

  “No wonder you and Jon Clarke make such a good couple,” said Jake stiffly. “I’m surprised he’s not here by your side to help you reel me into the kingdom.”

  The phone in his apartment rang, and we both looked in its direction, distracted. I forced myself back to the subject at hand.

  “Clarke has nothing to do with this conversation. And another thing! You sure are quick to change subjects when you don’t want to talk!”

  “It sure beats leaving the room,” he called after me as I ran upstairs. “Lecture, lecture, lecture, run. Shouldn’t you be getting me on my knees? After you heal my legs, of course?”

  What an awful person he can be! I threw myself across my bed. Terrible. Nasty. Ugly. Why should I waste my time worrying about him when I could worry about me instead?

  How proud the Lord must be of that mature, Christian attitude.

  Tuesday was a bad day at school. I don’t know whether the kids picked up on my distress and reacted to it, or whether they would have been terrible even if I’d been singing “I’m a Happy, Happy Christian” all day.

  One of the first grade boys lost his lunch all over my desk, ruining my plan book and perfuming the room.

  Two girls got in a hair-pulling, clothes-tearing fight over whose artwork was the best, and I was kicked and elbowed when I broke them up.

  A troubled student took umbrage at an uncomplimentary comment from his neighbor about his most unique, all-black painting, and I got there just in time to prevent his braining the neighbor with a chair.

  The mother of one of the girls in the fight came after school and harangued me for allowing her daughter to be attacked. I refrained, but barely, from giving her my opinion of her “darling girl.”

  When I finally arrived at Ripley’s Storage Garages, I was in as snarly a state of mind as I’d ever been. It was already four forty-five and getting dark fast. Eastern Standard Time had returned with the first weekend in November, and the earlier dusk was evident between the rows of garages that made up the Ripley complex. As I drove through the gateway in the chain-link fence, I was glad for the lights at regular intervals along the rows.

  An older gentleman in the office gave me directions to Mr. Geohagan’s unit, and I found it at the end of a long row of beige garages. I decided Mr. G must have a thing for corner properties.

  I parked my car in front of the unit, and in the illumination from a light on the wall three garages down I fitted the key into the lock and lifted the lightweight fiberglass door.

  By feeling along the wall inside the door, I found a switch. As light flooded the little room, a jumble of furniture, boxes, and miscellany sprang into view. I was looking at the putting away of a life, the ending of what had once been vibrant and alive and was now only a collection of dust-covered memories.

  Lord, I don’t know what You have in mind for me, but if it’s possible, please don’t let it be a hospital bed and a storage garage and nothing else. Please.

  Along the left wall was a small work area containing a gray metal desk with a gooseneck desk lamp, a padded, ergonomically sound chair, two dinged and dreary gray file cabinets, and a very handsome, very out-of-place navy leather easy chair.

  The desk was awash with papers left by a man obviously planning to return. But he hadn’t, and probably he never would.

  Why did he work here in the discomfort of this garage instead of in the relative comfort of his apartment? Certainly the apartment wasn’t cheery, but it was better than this. And that leather chair—why keep it here instead of at home where he could kick back and read Louis L’Amour?

  I glanced over my shoulder at the gaping door as I began gathering up the papers. How dark it now looked out there. I felt uncomfortable, vulnerable, alone, sort of itchy all over. Maybe I should close the door. But then I’d have to open it, and my imagination would conjure up all kinds of things just waiting for me on the other side.

  “If I’m ever widowed,” I once told my mother, “the first two things I’m going to buy are an electric garage door opener and an electric blanket.”

  Mom had only laughed. “Let’s get you married before we worry about your being widowed.”

  But my comment was heartfelt, especially about the garage door opener. I had hated going out at night at my old apartment when I had to lift my garage door on unseen darkness. Who knew what would be lurking there, waiting to pounce on me? I hated just as much coming home, getting out to lift the door, pulling into the garage, and getting out again to lower the door. At least at the farm I parked out in the open, where it felt safer somehow.

  I shivered as I turned back to Mr. Geohagan’s desk, and not from the cold. I stuffed all the papers in a large accordion folder they had obviously been in before. I was just reaching to open the left file drawer in the desk when the hair on the back of my neck began prickling. I made myself turn around.

  Two men stood in the doorway, silently watching me.

  “What do you want?” I asked, my voice a mere whisper.

  I looked from one to the other. They appeared ordinary. One had on a down vest and jeans and a Braves baseball cap. The other had a neat haircut, glasses, and his rugby shirt could be seen beneath a fleecy anorak that looked straight out of L.L.Bean.

  “If you’ll just get in your car and leave and make believe you’ve never been here today, we won’t bother you at all,” the one in the anorak said. “We have no quarrel with you.”

  “What?” It wasn’t one of my better moments.

  “Go. Get out. Leave now and you won’t get hurt.”

  “Just beat it out of here, lady.” It was the man in the baseball cap.

  He moved quickly toward me, and I had a flashback of this very man rushing down the steps at me. I backed away instinctively, bumping into the low arm of the easy chair. It caught me just behind my knees, and I fell backward into the soft, enveloping cushions.

  Before I could extricate myself, he was beside me, grabbing me, pulling me upright, and pushing me toward the door. I stared in fascination at his hand on my arm. It was covered with a lightweight plastic glove.

  “Hi,” said an unexpected voice.

  We three spun toward the door.

  The old gentleman from the office walked up to the garage. He smiled brightly at me. “I just wanted to be certain you were all right back here before I went home for the day.”

  “She’s fine,” said Anorak Man. “We got here just a few minutes ago to help her move some of these things.”

  “Funny,” the office man said. “I didn’t see you drive in.”

  “You were busy,” Anorak Man said reasonably. “We just drove on back. Don’t worry about Kristie. We’ll take care of her.”

  Somehow those words weren’t comforting.

  I smiled weakly at the office man, unable to open my mouth because of the paralyzing effect of a small, round object rammed into my back. Braves Cap Guy was actually holding a gun on me, and I’d heard a small click as he released its safety!

  Suddenly hospital beds and storage garages and elderly ending of days looked very attractive.

  The garage man waved cheerily and walked back into the night. As he disappeared from my view, I felt I was losing my dearest friend.

  “Good girl,” Braves Cap Guy said as he lowered the gun. He reached out to flick off the light in the garage. The darkness wrapped around me, scaring me, making me jumpier than I already was.

  “Too bright,” he said. “Now get in your car and disappear. And don’t bother to send the police or draw pictures for them or a
nything. We know exactly where to find you, all cozy at that Amish place. And you’ll regret it if we have to find you, believe me.”

  I believed him.

  “Go!”

  I started for the door, knowing that one or both of these men must be Mr. Stoltzfus’ watchers. But why in the world would anyone want to watch me?

  But, of course, it wasn’t me. It was Mr. Geohagan’s papers. I was important only because I led them to the documents. As were my room and my purse important as they might provide some clue—or key—to the same thing.

  Mr. Geohagan worked here rather than in his apartment to protect a secret. I looked at the desk and the papers resting there. Why were they so valuable?

  Anorak Man saw my look and gave a low, wicked chuckle. I had last heard that laugh on the other side of a closet door.

  I looked away quickly. If he thought I recognized him, he might not let me drive away so easily. I concentrated on Braves Cap Guy as he bent to pick up some papers that had fallen on the floor. As he bent, the beak of his cap hit the edge of the desk, and the cap fell to the floor.

  Another non-surprise. Even though the light was faint, seeping into the garage from the lot lights, I easily recognized the man who had approached me in the woods. The cap, pulled down tight, had changed the lay of his ears to his head and covered his bald forehead. It had also made him look a little dim.

  “Stupid,” said Anorak Man. “Look at her face. She recognizes you. She can identify you.”

  Braves Cap Guy shrugged. “So what? She’s not going to.” He smiled at me, and all I could think of were night prowlers and beasts of prey, fangs dripping saliva in the moonlight.

  “We can’t let her go,” Anorak Man was adamant. “ She’ll draw your picture for the cops, maybe not this week or next, but eventually. And then she’ll draw mine. She’s like that, honest and all. They’ll have you in no time. And then me.”

  They stared at me, obviously trying to decide what to do. I wanted to yell that I’d keep quiet forever if they’d just let me go. But I knew they were right. I would draw their pictures or identify them from those huge books of mug shots everyone always studied on cop shows. I was like that.